


Knocking on heaven's door

by Ghelik



Series: The 100 Fics [65]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alien Culture, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, New Planets, Past Child Abuse, Season/Series 06, Speculation, onesided bellamy blake/clarke griffin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: When the strange aliens inhabiting the planet capture Echo, Bellamy, and his family will stop at nothing to get her back.





	1. Mama, take this badge off of me, I can't use it anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much consideration, and after having been bullied off the Bellamy/Clarke (onesided) tag, I decided to put it back in. Mainly because it is an important part of this story, and there might be some people that actually enjoy and search for one-sided relationships. Gods know I do sometimes.   
> So, yeah, I will keep it in. Sorry if that annoys you. But it's pointed out twice that it is a one-sided relationship. If you don't like it, don't read it.

Bellamy’s wrists throb; blood coats the cuffs and makes the ground slippery. His shoulders ache, and he’s pretty sure he’s pulled one of them out of its socket. He takes a shuddering breath, backs up as much as his restrains allow, fixes his eyes on the metal door, sprints forward. The chains yank him back with so much force he crashes to the ground. His hip flares up in pain, his grunt barely audible through his raw throat.

A faint scream makes its way into the cell, chilling his blood. Bellamy grits his teeth climbs back to his feet; takes a small step back and prepares to repeat the whole process.

He has lost count of how many times he’s pulled on these thick chains, how often he’s fallen to the ground and picked himself up, how long he has been screaming, begging.

This was supposed to be a recognizance mission, an easy and harmless expedition to get rid of the cabin fever that had started to nag at their heels. Their little ship landed without much fanfare in a small clearing of a quiet forest, a few miles away from a settlement. Raven said she would be back for them in four days and left back for the mothership.

The mission was to gather information on the settlement, but the beautiful lake and the quietness of the forest sidetracked them. They squandered two whole days and weren’t the slightest bit remorseful for it.

The door to his cell opens so suddenly Bellamy stumbles back. Two guards dressed in well-worn fatigues and tiny boots enter the room.

The Earthers are tall and slender hairless creatures with ringed horns wrapped in cloth. Their unsettling black tear-shaped eyes set high on disturbingly symmetrical faces.

They carry the same electric sticks with which they subdued him and Echo. Bellamy eyes the tips distrustfully, his skin crawling with the memory of their power.

A moment later a woman in a silver coat and horn-wrap strides into the room, followed closely by Clarke. The former delinquent queen gasps at the sight of him, her eyes hardening into a scowl.

The woman chirps something in the Earther language, and one of the guards comes closer. Bellamy backs away on instinct. “It’s ok,” says Clarke. “They’re releasing you.”

The guard opens the heavy metal cuffs, carefully peeling them from the bloody messes that are his wrists. “My apologies, Bellamy Blake.” Like his captors, the woman speaks English with a weird accent full of broad vowels and hissy es.

Clarke smiles up at the woman, and how she manages to get herself into influential people’s good graces is something Bellamy will never know. “Thanks again, Prim’Sev.” The horned Earther, Prim’Sev, preens slightly – really how does Clarke do it? – and turns to go, but Bellamy digs his heels in.

“Where the hell is Echo?”

Clarke rolls her tongue over her teeth, her voice honey-sweet. “We need to leave now, Bellamy.”

He stands straighter. The Earthers are over two heads taller than him, but it’s the thought that counts. “I am not leaving without Echo.”

Clarke sighs; looks nervously around the room and takes a step closer to him. Her hand is pale against his blue shirt, fingers digging into his biceps, her breath warm when it brushes the shell of his ear. “Bellamy, we are already on thin ice here. It took a lot of convincing to make sure they let you go.” He wants to pull away, to push his way out of the room and find Echo himself, but pain flares up in his dislocated arm where Clarke’s squeezing it. “They are ready to shoot the E4 ship out of the sky. We need to leave _now_.”

 _Or everybody dies_ she doesn’t add, but it’s implicit. Another impossible choice: leave Echo behind and lose spacekru, or let Echo continue to be tortured and protect the rest of his clan. “Then take her instead.”

“Damn it, Bellamy,” growls the blonde. “I don’t have time to explain the socio-political structure of this world to you.” _You made a mess of things, and now Echo will pay the price_ , Clarke doesn’t need to say.

He swallows.

Raven went back to the ship. Murphy, Emori, Jordan and Shaw, they are all still up there. He left Octavia in the E4, still frozen in cryo. Madi’s probably safe if Clarke’s here, but the rest of them aren’t, and Echo would never let him put her life over the rest of their family.

Clarke takes a step back, her blue eyes shining with sentiment. “We’ll come back for her,” she whispers. And Bellamy knows, he knows she’s lying, but he’s outnumbered, outgunned, injured and needs way more information on the Earthers than he has.

Getting himself killed because of a poorly thought out plan will help nobody.

 _Hold on just a little longer, babe,_ he thinks. Clarke smiles and pulls him gently, mindful of his injured shoulder, towards the door.

They walk down a stone corridor with ceilings low enough that the guard’s horns scrape them, flanked by metal doors. At the end, a steep staircase with narrow steps leads to an oval door.

The door opens to a large dome-like glass and wood room that looks like the inside of an upturned vine-covered bowl. The place is sparsely decorated with light round furniture: a large dresser dividing it along the middle, a round table surrounded by what looks like high-backed kneeling-chairs.

Clarke sets his shoulder and bandages his wrist with sweet-smelling cloth strips Prim’Sev passes to her from a small carefully carved box.

As everything on this planet, the building is beautiful and unsettlingly alien.

Bellamy had thought that coming down to the planet Monty found for them would be like the first time he set foot on Earth. But every Arker had a sense of what the Earth looked like: they had seen videos, pictures, heard stories and imagined it. From a very young age, every Arker had been encouraged to think of how fantastic Earth was, and thus, they all idealized it. When they finally came down, the dream fit around the reality. Not perfectly – nobody had warned them about the bloodthirsty grounders – but the differences weren’t enough to make it look alien. They all expected it to be –more or less - like it was.

Earth 2, on the other hand, was not like the planet they had left behind, they had no information and no way of imagining what it would be. And thus the sheer alien-ness of it cannot go unnoticed: from the dome-like buildings he and Echo had seen in the distance before getting captured, to the tall and horned inhabitants, everything was… Different.

After his wounds have been tended to, Prim’Sev guides them out of the building through the beaded macramé curtain that covers the front door. A slick window-less car waits for them on a perfectly manicured lawn.

Before he’s gently shoved into the back of the vehicle, he manages to catch a glimpse of the electric fence a couple of yards away, and the igloo-shaped buildings built in concentric circles around the one they’ve just exited.

On the inside, the vehicle looks nothing like the rover: the padded seats are so tall his feet don’t reach the carpeted floor. Even though there are no windows, it isn’t dark. Instead, the ceiling shines with a pleasant light that mimics sunlight.

Bellamy couldn’t say for how long he sits beside Clarke, nor in which direction the car is moving, or if it’s moving at all. He cannot see the driver, either: the front is completely sealed off from the back.

At some point, Clarke shifts uncomfortably beside him.

“That was very reckless of you.”

“What exactly?” Bellamy sighs, leaning back on the soft seat.

“Leaving on your own without telling anyone.”

He sighs. “Please, enlighten me.”

“You took a dangerous spy warrior into uncharted territory, without telling me. You put our whole population at risk. This little excursion could’ve turned into another war. Monty and Harper didn’t die for you to go risking everyone’s life, including their son’s, within a fortnight of waking up.”

Bellamy takes a deep breath through his nose trying to control the urge to put his fist through the wall.

“We went down with no weapons, and no tech to check out the terrain. How is that considered a hostile action?”

“The graa are a very complex society.”

He hums, digging his nails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from throttling her.

“And how exactly do _you_ know?”

“When Raven told me that you had gone off, I made contact with them. It took a little bit of convincing, but I managed to get an audience with Prim’Sev and” she shrugs. “Well, we managed to get a deal.”

One of the Earthers opens the door and chirrups at them, Bellamy guesses he wants them out of his car, so he slips out onto the soft ground and frowns.

The car is parked in front of an incongruously _human_ building, squat and grey and square. The open doors lead to a large dark room over the door a metal sign declaring this the “HR Common House II.”

The driver chirrups; pats Bellamy on the head with his long six-fingered hands and scratches him behind the ear before slipping back into the car and speeding away. Clarke sighs and starts towards the building, expecting him to follow her.

He takes a deep breath, watching the slick vehicle disappearing between the trees in the distance. The weirdly human building sits on a large field, behind it a raises hulking metallic structure.

Bellamy sighs and follows Clarke into the building.


	2. Chapter 2

The inside of the building is a large room with a wide staircase to the left and seven lines of bolted-together chairs to the right. Doors line the walls liberally interspersed with odd motivational posters printed on abstract pictures. Messages like “Towards a better future,” “We are building a better world,” “You deserve this world” and “You earned the right to be here.”

At the back of the room, three battered desks hold equally battered computers. The wall behind the three counters has four large windows that bathe half the room in soft orange light. By an open door between the second and third windows stands Clarke with a busty redheaded woman.

The redhead is the first to notice him, her smile is one of those designed to put people at ease, when she walks her tiny feet click loudly on the wooden floors and it takes Bellamy a moment to notice why: she’s wearing high-heels, bright blue sandals with tall needle-thin heels that look incredibly uncomfortable. Her toenails are painted a deep-sea blue, and the big toe has a white heart on the polish.

He’s still staring at the incongruity of her feet when the woman stops in front of him and clears her throat. Bellamy snaps his eyes up and takes a startled step back.

Of course, he’s seen people with makeup before, but the bright colors on this woman don’t look anything like grounder’s war paint or the makeup girls on the Ark would don on special occasions. Hell, even O’s Blodreina getup was more comprehensible than the blue shadow in the woman’s eyelids and the green line under her eye.

The voice that comes out of her plump violet lips is deep and pleasant: “Welcome to the Captain River Human Reservoir. My name is Alice; I am head of the inscription team. You arrived a little later than we expected, so most everyone is already in the common dining hall having dinner. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll get your info into the system?” she smiles her reassuring smile again. “And then you can join everyone else in the dining hall. Today we have stew.”

Alice puts a small hand on his arm and Bellamy has to fight the urge to shake her off. Instead, he follows her to one of the desks, where she plops herself on an ergonomic chair and bids him to take a seat on a small bench across from her.

“Well we will start with a straightforward form, and then we’ll do a check-up, ok honey?”

Bellamy looks around the room. “I don’t think we will be staying for long. We need to get off the planet.”

Alice laughs. “Don’t worry, honey; this won’t take long. Can you tell me your full name?”

“Bellamy Blake”

“Would you be so kind as to spell it out for me? You people have very old-timey names. And I thought my parents were old-fashioned!” she laughs again, and Bellamy has to make an effort not to grimace. He complies.

“Date of birth?”

“May 7th, 2126.”

The woman giggles. “It’s still so curious to write that date down.”

Bellamy offers a small smile. Now that he’s out of the cage, in this quiet room with the low and natural lighting, tiredness is starting to catch up to him. And the inane questions keep his mind relaxed. He doesn’t need to think to answer most of them: blood type, mother’s name, mother’s date of birth, date of death, father’s name, father’s date of birth and death, name of siblings, place of birth, occupation, studies...

For what feels like hours he sits on the low bench, feeling his eyes grow heavier. Alice hums when she types, her bright blue fingernails clicking unhurriedly over the keyboard. When she’s finally satisfied, she stands up, moving slowly as if not to startle him. She guides him to a side room furnished with a doctor’s cot, a computer on a metal bench and medical supplies. Alice asks him to take off his shirt and shoes and steps forward with measuring tape. He stands on the scale. Alice nods and types something on a thin silver tablet. Then she proceeds to measure him, her hands cold when they land on his skin. He should be warier, but the human contact is not unwelcome “You have an awful lot of scars,” Alice comments tracing a faded burn mark on his left shoulder. Bellamy chuckles. “You should see Monty’s hands.”

It takes him a second to process what he just said, and the sudden realization hits him like a ton of bricks: she will never see Monty’s hands. Monty will never absently pic on the scars. Monty will never complain of his right hand not working properly. Monty is dead. And for a moment there he forgot.

Bellamy tries to pull air into his lungs, but he can’t.

How could he forget? It’s been less than a month, and he forgot…

Alice’s purple smile is kind, her hand digging into the knot in his neck, grounding. “It’s always hard when it’s so recent.”

A part of him wants to tell her he knows about loss, more than she can even begin to imagine. But another, more significant part of him, is grateful for the simple words and the grounding touch.

Alice nods and pulls away, checks his wounds and re-dresses his wrists with clean, aseptic bandages. She moves around him, keeping a constant stream of senseless small talk, her calm, friendly and nearly monotone voice, easing him back into a sense of calm and safety. It doesn’t take long for him to start zoning out.

Bellamy’s nearly sleeping on his feet when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar shape that puts his whole body on alert.

The stranger is at his shoulder, a grey gun in hand.

He moves even before he has fully processed what he’s seeing — six years of daily training with Azgeda’s finest allowing him to disarm and immobilize her in the blink of an eye. Alice screams when Bellamy twists her arm behind her back, the sound echoing in the empty room. He kicks the gun out of her reach and pulls harder, just a little more, and he’ll snap her elbow, rendering her firing arm useless.

“Bellamy!” Clarke’s voice snaps his attention like it always does. The blonde stands in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth agape. “What are you doing? Let her go!”

“She was about to shoot me!” growls Bellamy. He needs to get off the planet, needs to find his family and get away from this random woman that just pulled a gun on him for no reason.

“I was putting the chip in! I swear!” screeches Alice buckling, trying to dislodge him. Bellamy twists her arm a little more as a warning.

Someone pushes Clarke aside, and a moment later Murphy and Raven elbow their way into the room. Bellamy frowns, his eyes going from the two Spacekru to Clarke. _What are they doing down here?_

She said they were on the ship. They should be on the ship.

Murphy picks the gun up. Good.

“Listen to me, Bellamy. This is not a gun. They use this to put a tracker in you. He pulls his sleeve up to show a small reddened bump on his forearm. “See? You need one, or they won’t let you into the compound. And, believe me,” he smiles, “you don’t want to spend three days in this room.”

Everything clicks into place. Clarke has lied to him, she has used him, and he doesn’t have enough information to assess the situation properly.

Bellamy lets Alice go, and the woman hurries out of his reach with a frightened squeak.

“I will put the chip in, ok?” Murphy comes closer, gun in hand.

“It’s better if it goes on the neck,” Alice speaks up, cradling her abused wrist against her chest. Murphy spares her a sarcastic look. “Not a chance,” growls Raven.

Bellamy offers his left arm, and Murphy presses the gun under the scar from where he cut his last tracker out. It doesn’t hurt, but the idea that these strangers will have him pinpointed at all times unsettles him.

Bellamy rubs the small bump under his skin and looks at Alice. “I am sorry for…” he clears his throat. “Attacking you.”

“Don’t worry.” She tries to smile, but it is obvious this was scary for her. “It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened.” Her eyes flit from Bellamy to Murphy, who bares his teeth in a parody of a smile.

“Can we leave now?” growls the Spacekru man setting the chipping gun on the bench next to the computer.

“Yes.” Alice clears her throat “Yes, of course. Do you want me to show you around?”

Raven tosses Bellamy his shirt. “We’ll do the honors.”

He slips his shoes on and hurries after his family leaving Alice and Clarke behind.

They go out of the building and onto a large paved square: squat concrete structures to the right and left and a moss-covered spaceship across from them.

Raven guides them to one of the buildings on the left.

The inside looks like a dorm: bunk beds lining the walls, a small sitting area at the back, furnished with couches and a roundtable where Emori, Shaw, and Octavia sit. Light streams in through small square windows.

Emori and Shaw stand up as soon as they enter. Octavia shifts warily but doesn’t come closer.

Bellamy has to swallow the anger and betrayal down.

“Where’s Echo?” asks Emori.

“They still have her.”

Emori gapes. “What? Why?”

“Apparently Clarke’s agreement didn’t include her.” He forces his voice to remain calm, objective. They need to regroup and find a way of going back for Echo, and that won’t happen if he doesn’t keep a level head and can’t come up with a viable plan.

“I guess some things never change,” mumbles Octavia from where she’s still sitting on one of the worn couches. Not far, but not part of the group.

“How long have you been down here? How many awake?”

“Five days. Everyone that was awake when you left. Plus Octavia and Miller. We are all on a trial phase. If we acclimate ok, then we can wake and bring more people down.”

He nods.

“And the ship?”

“Still in orbit. ”

He presses his fists to the tabletop. “Is it in danger?” He doesn’t need them to answer, the looks Raven and Murphy share enough to answer the question. Bellamy counts to ten. “Ok.” He grits out. “What do we know of this situation?

Murphy plops on a chair to his left.

“Apparently humans are a species on the brink of extinction. The graa- the big horned people – hunted them down when they first arrived, but then they made a treaty or something, and now the humans are kept in reservoirs.”

“What happens to those that don’t want to stay put?”

“They get through a re-education program we ‘don’t need to worry our little heads with,’” answers Raven. Bellamy shudders, Echo’s screams still fresh in his mind.

“Clarke was with one of the horned people. Prim-something.”

“Yeah, she made contact with the ground, and this graa lady was very keen in getting to know her. They conferred for a whole afternoon, next thing we know she has made a deal for those awake to land in the reservoir. Got us all through Immigration and settled within a few days.”

Bellamy scratches the little red bump where the tracker is embedded under his skin. “What about these?”

“We need it to collect data for a few days so that we can put it in a believable loop,” the mechanic explains. "I already tested it with Shaw and Emori. The loop works perfectly."

“Good." He casts his eyes around the room, taking in his kru; glad to be back, surrounded by people he can trust, his family. As long as they're together, there's nothing they can't overcome. "What about you? What have you been up to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting


	3. Chapter 3

The common dining room is inside the old spaceship and it looks disturbingly similar to the bunker’s dining room did. Maybe all the dining rooms look the same: long tables and metal chairs a sort of buffet to the left manned by people in yellow aprons and nets on their hair. Murphy is one them, who knew the weird rat-like creature had a taste for cooking?

Bellamy did.

Octavia huffs and stabs one of the meaty balls in her bowl.

She’s sitting apart from her brother and his newfound family, two tables down, surrounded by strangers that speak a weird version of English. The man to her left is Shepa, and the one to her right is called Zen. They’re both part of the cleaning crew she’s been assigned to, and they’re friendly enough, she guesses, if slightly childish in their wonder and openness.

People on Monty’s new earth are weirdly _happy._ They smile _all the time_ ; speak with their whole bodies, moving their arms and hands like they want to pat the world on the back. They walk around with not a care in the world, welcoming and friendly and Octavia can’t help but be unnerved out by it. She bites into the meatball.

The meat is good, flavorful, juicy and tender, the sauce spicy and sharp. There are vegetables there, too, which remind her of the farm in the bunker. She doesn’t touch those.

“Seems our young tigress is angrier than usual today,” Shepa teases. “What’s got you all riled up?”

“Nothing.”

Anger hums under her skin and her hand itches for a sword, for a sparring partner, for a way of getting rid of all the feelings gnawing at her. Ever since Raven woke her up, she’s been having trouble keeping herself under control, her feelings are under the skin, close enough that anyone can see them. Indra taught her better than that.

Zen follows the line of her eyes and smirks, elbowing her in the ribs. “Is this about a _boy?”_

“That is my brother.”

The person she knew best in the world, the person that had secrets for everyone but her; the one person who needed her as much as she needed him. Only that now he doesn’t anymore. He has his little family, Raven, and Murphy and even that Eligius guy Raven fancies. A part of her understands why Bellamy’s angry, why he can’t look at her and hasn’t said three words to her since he arrived at the reservoir two days ago.

The part that’s still a little girl waiting for her brother to come home and tell her stories seethes with anger, feels betrayed and robbed. Raven and the rest have stolen her brother from her. Not only that, but they brought her down here without her clan, so she doesn’t have a purpose anymore.

From queen to janitor. Bellamy must find it funny. How the mighty have fallen.

“I didn’t know you spaceies had siblings” Zen comments happily. “Why is he so broody? You two argue?”

“Something like that,” she answers.

Octavia hasn’t told anyone about her role in the bunker. Somehow even she can see that telling these happy-go-lucky people she was a dictator who forced people into cannibalism wouldn’t go over so well.

When Abby enters the mess hall, Octavia pushes her plate away with a disgusted huff.

She’s stuck cleaning other people’s shit, but Abby’s been allowed to remain a doctor. Abby who is as guilty as she is, who is not only responsible for the cannibalism but who is an addict and a thief.

“I’m going back to work.”

She’s walking away before either Shepa or Zen can stop her, pushing her way out of the room and back to her cart.

They gave her this job because she isn’t qualified for any other. She doesn’t have a single skill that can be useful down here, not in a world where war and violence are extinct concepts.

Octavia knows it could be much worse.

“Hey! Wait up, tigress!”

Zen runs up to her as she unlocks the wheels on her little cart. “My name is Octavia,” she spits through gritted teeth.

“It’s just a nickname, Octavia. Because we like you.”

“You haven’t even seen a tiger in your life.”

Zen laughs and pushes a hand through his auburn curls, the gesture reminds her so much of her brother, it hurts. “Not in real life, no. But we did have these cartoons when I was little. ‘The adventures of Odd and Pib’ and there was this episode with Octavia, the Tigress. She had a nasty temper. But then they discover it was because she had a thorn in her paw.” He chuckles.

Anger wells up in her. He’s mocking her. They all are. They see her as some irrational idiot.

She sees red and the next thing she knows, Zen is flat on his back, a terrified look on his face and blood welling up from his split lip. Octavia takes a step back.

He has the same look Andrew had when she held a gun to his head and ordered him to eat his brother’s flesh in the cantina.

She killed Andrew because she didn’t have a choice. And now her clansman is here, haunting her. Looking at her through Zen’s pale eyes. Reminding her of the bunker, the darkness and coldness and…

Octavia flees.

From Queen to janitor, from warrior to coward, how low she has fallen.

She keeps running out of the enclosed world of the human reservoir and out into the lush forest that surrounds this new prison. Her muscles scream in protest, atrophied after so many years inside a small prison – weak, but she ignores it. Ignores the stitches in her side, the tears blurring her vision and keeps running.

Jasper hated the out-doors, said it was unnerving not being surrounded by walls, always lowkey afraid gravity would malfunction, and they would all inevitably float off the planet and into the void. Octavia, on the other hand, couldn’t love it more. The knowledge that she could run and keep running and run some more and never get to the end, never find a wall obstructing her path, holding her in.

The fence appears out of nowhere: a tall mesh structure so tall it dwarfs her, spiky wire adorning the top like a crown and an electric hum that laughs at her. _You though anyone would let you loose?,_ crackles the fence.

The fence rolls out left and right, humming its happy little song and holding the whole reservoir in a tight, asphyxiating embrace.

Octavia feels burning tears searing their way down her cheeks. Another confining wall, of course there’s another fucking wall. Why wouldn’t it be? Her freedom was died with Lincoln and she’s been living in a tomb ever since: the bunker, the space ship. And now, when she though she had finally escaped: this… this planet, so full of trees and plants Lincoln would’ve loved, is kept from her and she wants to tear the fence down, wants to drive her sword through whoever built it, wants to rage and burn and destroy. But most of all she wants to wail, she wants to be held like she was when she was small and had a nightmare or had to spend a lot of time in the dark.

She wants Bellamy back. Her Bellamy, the one who shot Jaha to be with her, the one who would come every day with stories and play with her no matter how tired he was. She wants the Bellamy that told her stories and that gave the best hugs and that loved her no matter what. She wants her big brother back, not this strong and handsome man that wears his face and that flinches when she moves too quickly in his direction. The brother she could count on, not spacekru’s leader, who poisoned her and who is right all the time.

Octavia turns back towards the settlement, feet heavy and lips quivering. At some point, she finds herself surrounded by trees again, far enough from fence and civilization that she can pretend neither exists. She sits down on a large moss-covered boulder. The blue-green plants are soft to the touch, the dew shining like diamonds on the late afternoon light.

The largest sun is about to set, which means there will be at least three more hours of light before nightfall. There is enough light to see the intricate pattern on the plants that surround her.

“You would’ve loved this,” she mumbles, resting her chin on her knees. If she concentrates enough, she can picture him: walking silently through the underbrush, collecting samples and sketching plants, an easy smile on his full lips.

His eyes are the most difficult part to conjure up correctly. The exact shape and color and the way the light lit them up. The cadence of his voice is vanishing, too and Octavia’s terrified of the day she won’t be able to remember it. The day that hundred-thirty-one-year-old ghost finally vanishes from her side.

Her sniff is loud and unbecoming – weak – but there is nobody here to witness it. Much like in her rooms in the bunker, out here she can be weak.

“I miss you, Lincoln.”

There is no answer. Octavia leans back against the hard bark of a large tree, her eyes scanning what little sky she can see between the branches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and commenting


	4. Chapter 4

_MOVE!_

Octavia startles awake and it takes her a minute to gather her bearings.

She’s still in the forest, curled up with her back against the boulder. The world around her is the deep dark green that comes with night on Monty’s Planet, one of the many moons blinks lazily at her between the back canopy.

_MOVE!_

The order reverberates in her brain. Not an order. An idea. She has the urge to move, roll to the side and away from the boulder.

Blinking blearily she scoots to the side.

_MOVE!_

She frowns.

It’s not a word she hears, it’s not even _hearing_. It’s the concept of movement what keeps repeating.

She scoots some more to the side and the urge, the concept, vanishes from her mind. A few heartbeats later the boulder shakes and a small triangular head emerges. Seven beady black eyes blink on a wide brow; long leaf-like whiskers quivering on around the small nose. The head is attached to a long, mossy neck that seems to go on forever, slowly unfurling until it’s taller than Octavia herself. The body follows a moment later, crawling out of a hole under the boulder. It has too many, small stumpy legs and a square-ish body, covered in shaggy fur. The creature regards her with its many eyes before turning and making its way slowly into the woods.

Octavia stares at the place where it disappears long after it’s gone. With a sigh she starts towards the settlement. Where else can she go, really?

She hadn’t intended to fall asleep in the forest, but the soft rustling of the leaves and the coldness of the air managed to lull her into a sense of peace she hasn’t been able to find in… over a hundred years, really.

It bothers her, to know that she shouldn’t stay in this reservoir; it’s good neither for her nor for the people around her, if she is completely honest. Octavia knows she should leave. Maybe ask to be put back in cryo until they’ve decided what to do with the rest of the human refugees, because that is a discussion that will happen between humankind’s leaders, and she is no longer one of them.

The hulking shape of Eligius’ spaceship is a blight against the night sky. The smaller buildings, gathered like chicks at its feet are lit by small electric lanterns, which help her find her way back to the quarters she’s sharing with spacekru.

Her roommates are all awake when she opens the door, gathered around Raven’s bed in various stages of undress. Bellamy’s sitting at Raven’s side, arm outstretched and brow furrowed in concentration. The mechanic’s bent over his forearm, tools in hand.

“Are we sure we don’t want to take a fighter with us?” asks Murphy.

“This mission is in and out. No confrontation, no casualties. The last thing we need is for someone to get hurt and start another bloody war,” grumbles Bellamy.

“Don’t move,” hisses Raven. Emori, standing behind her, hands her another tool

“I am only saying, better safe than sorry. These people seem to have forgotten the concept of violence, but that doesn’t mean the graa are as peaceful.

“We shouldn’t even be considering this. We are putting everyone in jeopardy, and after what Octavia did today, we might all be expelled from the reservoir.”

“You want to abandon Echo?”

“No. I hate that she’s trapped somewhere and that they’re doing spirits know what to her.”

“That’s it. You are now on a virtual loop,” interrupts Raven.

“But”, continues Emori, her eyes hard, “I also know my sister, and she’s strong. She was trained to endure whatever they might throw at her.”

There is a moment of silence in which Murphy and his ex-girlfriend stare at each other. “You didn’t hear her, Ems.” Bellamy’s voice is soft, fear open and clear as day in his voice. “Whatever they were doing to her…” He trails off, rubbing the scar over the tracker. “You didn’t hear her scream.”

Octavia shivers.

A sound must escape her, because the group turns towards her as one. They watch her with distrust, but don’t scamper to try and hide Raven’s tools or pretend they weren’t speaking about slipping away. So, at least they don’t believe she’ll sell them out.

 _Or_ , whispers a nasty voice in her head, _they know you have no allays or friends that would miss you if you were to vanish._

“Can you do the same to mine?” she asks, pointing at her neck.

The group shares a look. Even Shaw is part of that pack and she has nobody.

“Yeah, do it,” mumbles Bellamy without looking at his sister.

“Are you sure?” Raven does nothing to hide her distrust. That’s one of the thighs Octavia likes about Raven, she’s blunt and straightforward. No scheming, two-faced lies.

“Nobody should be collared like a dog.”

It stings, that he’s deciding to disable her tracker out of principle and not because it’s _her_. Octavia pushes those thoughts down and sits on Raven’s cot. Her brother pulls his shirt on, walking away from Raven, putting as much space between Octavia and himself as he can.

When he sits down to lace his boots up, it dawns on Octavia that they’re planning on escaping today.

“How will you disable the electric fence?”

“It shuts down for three minutes every two hours at night,” explains Raven.

Octavia frowns. “Well, that’s convenient”

“It’s not. It’s a security flaw we are going to exploit,” grumbles Murphy like it’s a challenge.

Bellamy stands up, his boots laced, the dark leatherjacket he wore on Earth in hand. “Lets move.”

Emori, Murphy, and Bellamy move towards the door.

“Wait!”

Bellamy looks at her for the first time this evening and it’s such a flat stare, she feels anger burning under her skin.

“Can I come with?” Bellamy doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at her until she can’t look him in the eye anymore. “Only until we cross the fence?”

She sees it his face, the automatic _no_ , the desire to ask her to stay. It’s in the tightness around his eyes, the set of his mouth. He has the same tired defiance about his shoulders he had years ago when he told her she would always fit with him. “You can do whatever you want. Don’t slow us down.”

Octavia tries not to feel the sting of his words, the dismissal of the notion that she _is_ leaving this community. Maybe because he believes she won’t. Maybe because he knows she won’t.

Raven pats her arm. “It’s done.” And to her friends she adds. “You should run.”

They leave, running quietly out of the circle of light and back into the woods. Emori is the first, her strides long and agile; Bellamy follows closely, just one or two steps behind her, and Murphy bringing up the rear with his weird way of trotting with short, uneven steps. Once they enter the forest, their footfalls are completely silent, even on the unknown terrain.

Emori leads them to the fence right as the humming stops and the three spacekru members launch themselves onto it without a second thought.

“Man, my arms are going to kill me tomorrow,” hisses Murphy.

“You shouldn’t have skipped training so often then,” growls Emori, halfway up the fence.

Octavia’s starting on the fence, when they’re suddenly pinned by a harsh spotlight, and a loud voice calls: “Get down!”

The four of them exchange a look, and when Bellamy’s eyes fall on her, she feels herself stammering a low: “It wasn’t me!”

“Bellamy, Emori, Murphy, Octavia, get down from there!”

Emori curses in trig, and Murphy’s expression turns murderous as he grunts: “Of fucking course.”

Clarke Griffin and Hawel Pententons, one of the reservoirs main security guards, stand beside a slick rover-like vehicle.

“I am leaving,” snaps Bellamy.

“No, you are not.”

Bellamy turns to continue climbing.

“Bellamy! This is serious!” screeches Clarke.

“I am going to find Echo.”

There’s no time. If he doesn’t come down now, he’ll be electrocuted. Murphy seems to come to the same conclusion as Octavia, because he jumps back and down. Emori looks down, seemingly coming to the same realization, but she’s too far up.

“Jump!” shouts Murphy “I’ll catch you.”

Octavia looks at her brother. He has stopped but is still staring stubbornly up, like he can’t decide whether to give up or not. She takes the choice for him, grabbing his calf and pulling him down at the same time Emori takes her leap of faith and jumps into Murphy’s waiting arms.

The crash against the floor knocks the air out of Octavai, and her elbow flares up in pain when it collides with a rock. Bellamy lands beside her with a loud huff. Half a second later the fence starts humming again.

When Octavia rolls back up on her feet, Emori’s still in Murphy’s arms, clutching his shoulders like a lifeline. He lets her down slowly, his arm remaining around her back as they turn to greet Clarke.

The blonde’s displeased to say the least. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that it’s been a week and we still don’t know anything about Echo,” spits Bellamy, raising to his feet, towering over her, voice vibrating with barely contained anger. “I was thinking that you have sold her out and that I am not letting any more of my people die.”

“There is nothing we can do, at the moment. The graa…”

“The graa are only talking to you. And I don’t believe you have asked to get Echo back.”

Clarke splutters, eyes round and mouth agape.

“I think,” says Hawel Pententons, “we should all go back to the settlement. You and your friends can spend the night at the holding cells. And in the morning we will continue this conversation.”

Emori and Murphy look at Bellamy and their expression is clear: if he tells them to fight and run, they will. If the fence does, in fact shut down every two hours, they could hide in the forest and try again later.

Bellamy shakes his head towards the vehicle, telling them to stand down.

They pile in the back of the odd rover.

“We could’ve run,” whispers Octavia sitting across her brother. He regards her with tired eyes.

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Raven, Shaw and Jordan are still there.” He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the soft headrest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas present for you all. Enjoy

The world swims in and out of focus.

She isn’t sure where she is, what is happening, if she is moving or sitting on a restrained chair – she isn’t sure who or what she is either.

The world around her is constantly changing. In the blink of an eye she finds herself striding down the stone corridors of a castle (smells of melted wax and flowery soap and freshly cut flowers and perfume); crouched between the leaves of a shrub in a forest (birds twittering overhead and wet dirt and the rustling of leaves, ants crawling over her legging-covered legs); warming her hands by a fire in a damp valley (the laughter of comrades, and the weight of deer in her belly, someone smiling at her across the distant, and the dust of her whetstone coating her fingers); curled up inside a too-small cage (harsh white light, a constant humming of trapped lightning and the tang of poison, the sting of needles and the knowledge of imminent death). She’s on a dusty field with a sword (the training yard full with soldiers, landing on the dirt, bruises and the stench of horse shit, the laughter of men, the snap of strings and the exhilarating sound of metal on metal, the shock of a blow vibrating all the way to her core and the bark of hunting dogs, the whine of horses and the sharp eyes of-); stripped down, kneeling on cracked wooden floors (looking up and knowing she isn’t-); strapped to a chair in an unfamiliar room.

Most of the time pain is her constant companion: lashes on her back, a whip across outstretched hands, a sword slicing neatly through skin, (familiar?) hands choking her, an arrow embedded into her shoulder, the fiery burn of Mountain Men’s weapons (semi-automatic guns); the claws of a bear, the tusk of the boar that killed Geordie; the teeth of (Haiplana’s?) hunting dogs tearing through her, the disorienting clamps of poison burning through her veins.

And all the while an unfamiliar voice whispering into her mind: _This is what violence does. Violence is bad. This is what you cause with violence._

She breathes through her nose, willing her body to _stop complaining already._ Spymaster (Murray?) taught her. He would sit her and the other children down and put their hands on hot stones and made them remember. They went through this because- Because-

 _Concentrate, Little Girl_. _Always keep your purpose in mind._

There was a goal she wanted to achieve. Her whole life revolved around that one single purpose. _Keep it in mind. Endure, for that is-_

 _This is what violence does_ , whispers a voice that is not spymaster’s — a voice that confuses and muddies her brain and makes the pain so much worse. _Violence is bad. This is what you cause with violence._

She has forgotten her purpose.

Without it to tether her she doesn’t have a reason to fight. But she keeps fighting. That is the only thing he knows how to do. Maybe that was her purpose? Maybe her purpose was to fight, to endure the waves of pain.

Because the pain is like the waves of the Great Waters, she will burn in fires and suffer from sickness; she will grit her teeth through broken limbs and missing toes. And, just like the ebb and flow of the tide, the wave will retreat, and she will blink, and the world will become focused, and she won’t be in pain: no wound, only the vague, fleeting memory of it slipping through her fingers.

When the pain rushes away, she’s safe. Sometimes curled inside a dark closet _him_ (Hector) only paces away. Sometimes she’s running through a poppy field, chasing laughing children. Sometimes she’s sitting at the feet of a crowned man whose smile warms her heart; or riding full tilt across snow-covered forests, rolling blue mountains in the distance; eating juicy pears by an impressive waterfall; laughing around a campfire; dancing around a Maypole with flowers woven in her hair ( _When we get down I’ll let you braid lilies in my hair. Those are my favorites)_. Sometimes she’s waking up nestled beside a handsome (familiar) man, his arm warm and soft tracing the faded lines of age-old scars with such reverence it twists her heart (he shouldn’t touch her like that. It’s not right. Pleasedon’tstop). Sometimes she’s looking down at him, body trembling with shocks of unadulterated pleasure, his warm hands anchoring her lest she flies away, his handsome face covered in stars. ( _Orion is my favorite. Right here under your eye_ ).

These respites are both a blessing and a course. As soon as she starts to relax, as soon as the memory of pain has faded into the distance and her mind uncoils, the mirage shatters, the nightmare begins anew and she destroys all that is beautiful: burning the poppy field, drenching the waterfall in blood, tearing the laughing children to pieces, standing, weapons dripping blood over a mountain of slain men (compatriots, if not friends). And the voice that is not any voice he ever heard before whispers harshly in her ear: _This is what violence accomplishes._

Still, she fights. She fights the urge to give in, the urge to drop the sword, break the bow, melt her knives.

She draws the string of her bow, and her eyes catch Orion blinking at her from right under the stern eyes of-

Sometimes she blinks and the world shifts into an incomprehensible dome-like room. It’s white, well lit but she cannot find the source. She’s always alone in this room. Always propped onto a cushioned reclining chair, her hands neatly folded in her lap, fingers carefully curled, knuckles touching, her legs bent slightly.

On the white walls of the dome, impossible shadows play like on moving pictures (movies? Films?). There is no sound to these shadows, and their forms are vague enough that she cannot truly make them out.

She isn’t sure if she’s awake or dreaming when she’s on the reclining chair. It feels like a dream: her body heavy and unresponsive, weak but unharmed. She can only stare at the walls and try to make out the images on the walls.

There is a soft smell in the air, though. Something strange, flowery with a harsh earthy tang she has never smelt before and that is how she knows it’s not a dream. She has never in her life dreamt of a smell.

“Little Girl,” whispers a voice and her heart lurches up. She fights the heaviness, trying to turn her head, trying to call out, but only a soft moan creeps its way up her throat.

Then she blinks, and the room disappears, and it all starts again.

She’s holding an ax. She can feel the weight of it, the softness of the handle, the roughness of the rope at the end digging into her hand. She sees the glint of its sharp edge as if it could cut light itself. This is an executioner’s ax, heavy with the weight of law (justice). Sharp and powerful: one blow and the enemy is defeated.

She feels the shock of impact as it falls on an exposed neck (traitor). Warm blood sprays across her face. The (traitor’s) body is dressed in nice leathers, heavy (familiar?) hands shackled at its back. The ring fills her with dread as she turns to the head in the executioner’s basket.

Blank blue eyes stare at her: sharp cheekbones and blond hair (warmth) and a mouth made to smirk (Hector!).

She stares down, and a voice (her voice?) whispers in her ear: _This is what violence does. It destroys everything_.

The blood across her face burns like acid. The ax’s weight seems unbearable.

Something in her stomach churns. She feels sick.

The clatter of the blade on the ground echoes through her whole body. She closes her eyes, trying to block out the icy (wrong) stare on that usually warm and familiar face.

But as she closes her eyes, the nightmare doesn’t go away because she is not on an executioner’s dais. But standing in a dungeon, pinning him down and slitting his throat, blood turning her skin red, cutting his pleas short. She’s crouching in the forest losing an arrow that pierces his heart, his body crashing to the ground, limp and cold.

No matter how often she throws her weapon away, a weapon is always in her blood covered hand. She can smell death on her like a stench permeating her soul. She can feel the fire, can smell the metal, can smell the blood, and it’s real, but she doesn’t know how to stop.

A thousand times she kills him. With a thousand different weapons (sometimes her own body is the weapon) and a thousand times, he stares at her until she has to close her eyes, only to open them in yet another terrible scenario.

Until, one time, when she’s holding her favorite blade, and he’s but a breath away. She can feel the bone of the pommel, the soft slap of the empty scabbard against her leg, the unevenness of the ground under her feet. She can smell horse and smoke and salmon, cooked venison, and dirt (they come from a hunt). She can feel the weight of his smile as he looks down at her. And when his mouth moves, she knows he’s going to say her name. And she knows she’s going to stab him, fell him until that warmth is gone forever.

She throws the sword away and closes her eyes.

And when it’s a bow, she snaps it in two, when it’s a knife she drives it into a rock, smashes the Mountain Men’s fire (rifles) and spills the poison and when it’s her body the only thing that’s at hand, she stays still, unmoving like a statue lest she might harm him.

She blinks, and the white dome-like room appears, and her whole body slackens with relief.

“Little Girl,” whispers the (familiar) voice. And her heart lurches. She manages to roll her head to the side, but the only thing to see is the white wall. The shadows dance in hypnotic patterns. “Do you remember what I told you when I first took you in?”

She wants to answer. Wants to move, wants to make sure he is still alive.

Instead, she closes her eyes. And, for once, there is only darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting


	6. Chapter 6

The alarm goes off. It’s a shrill sound that drills irritatingly into her brain. Around the room people start stirring: Kane is the first to stumble out of his cot. He is still convalescing from the stab wounds, but he’s getting better every day and refusing to sit around while others work. Abby pads like a ghost out of the room and into the adjacent bathroom. A very pregnant Dyioza sways slightly as she hauls herself out of bed.

Clarke rolls to her back feeling as tired as she was yesterday night when she finally fell into her bed. For a moment she blinks at the mattress' base over her head. A few decades worth of graffiti stare back at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Madi’s head appear upside down over the side of the top bunk. “ _Wake up, sleepyhead._ ”

Madi uses trig only scarcely these days, and Clarke knows she should encourage her to use her language more often. But most of the grounders are still sleeping up in the sky, and they aren’t sure if Wonkru will be joining them any time soon, so what’s the point of her differentiating herself from the other children in the reservoir anyway? Wouldn’t it be easier for her if she adjusted seamlessly into her new world without the additional language? Without a constant reminder of her roots and the threat of the Commander chip still implanted in her neck?

Except it feels wrong.

“ _I am up, I’m up_ ,” Clarke answers in trig.

Swinging her legs off the cot, her foot topples one of the boots. They are dirty from her trek through the forest, mud cacking the cracked leather her tracks visible on the floor, and she wants to scream.

Clarke has spent her night tossing and turning, trying to decide if she is disappointed, angry or frustrated with how reckless Bellamy has been since he arrived at the reservoir.

She can’t stop thinking about it. The Bellamy she knew was only reckless with his own life. He wouldn’t jeopardize everything she’s doing, every tiresome meeting she’s had with the reservoir’s top tier, every string she’s pulling to get the graa and the humans to allow more of their people down. The careful negotiations and small seeds she’s trying to plant, to get them a good deal, fully aware that she has nothing to bargain with.

And what does he do? He runs off! Like he’s learned nothing. Like it wasn’t his selfishness, his destruction of Raven’s radio, what got them into their first war. And all for what?

_The graa are only talking to you. And I don’t believe you have asked to get Echo back._

The words hurt. Because Bellamy never came to her, he never asked her. He’s been here less than a week, and he’s already decided she’s the bad guy (there are no bad guys). _You have sold her out_.

Clarke follows Madi into the bathroom to take her lukewarm shower, her movements purely mechanic, a remembered ritual, while in her brain Bellamy’s words run in circles, like mad dogs chasing their tails. _You have sold her out._

Bellamy is seared into the back of her eyelids: fists clenched, jaw hard, eyes blazing with anger, a single tear clinging to his long eyelashes. Seeing him like that pushed all the air out of her lungs and it stills twists something in her belly.

The soap bottle clatters loudly to the tiled floor, but she doesn’t hear it. _I am not letting any more of my people die_ ; he said yesterday like it was her fault. Like she didn’t want to do everything in her power to erase that look off his face.

She did what had to be done to keep him safe, to keep Emori and Murphy and Octavia safe.

Hasn’t she proven, time and time again, that she fights for her people?

 _Correction, person_. Echo’s taunting voice is like a slap across the face and Clarke turns the water off like it burned her.

She didn’t abandon Echo. Echo will be fine. The graa have assured her she is fine.

Clarke presses her lips together. Bellamy is wrong. Echo is wrong, too. She did this to keep their people safe like she has always done.

She steps out of the shower, to find Madi already at the mirrors, brushing her teeth. The teen is excited: today her class will visit one of the labs that store DNA samples of every creature on Earth. She keeps babbling about her classmates and what they all want to see on their field trip. Clarke is barely listening, her brain still churning.

Thinking of Bellamy and Murphy and Emori, willing to run away into the unknown. Of their angry stares. Of her meetings with the graa back when she didn’t know where Bellamy and Echo were, what damage they had already done. Thinks of Prim’Sev’s initial reluctance to let them go. Of the tiresome arguments and near pleas and the crushing relief Clarke felt, when the graa agreed to release Bellamy.

The thought of Bellamy dea-(loneliness; words whispered into an empty space that never answers; silence; desperation that threatens to choke her; waking up alone at night; silence; a mirage that disappears as soon as she opens her eyes leaving only an empty chasm she has felt so often already; so much silence) not by her side has bile rising in the back of her throat.

She can do this if Bellamy is safe. She can do this if he is by her side.

Clarke dresses in her worn clothes, not feeling refreshed at all, and brushes and braids Madi’s hair.

Her smart girl is adapting so well to her new environment. She’s making new friends, playing with other children, learning about the latest tech and history and not being bothered by the ghosts of commanders. Madi has a chance to be a child in this community, not fighting for her survival, not making life or death decisions, not alone for the first time in so long. That, at least, is something less to worry about.

 _See, Bellamy? Even a thirteen-year-old is making less trouble than you,_ thinks Clarke angrily as she pulls her jacket on.

 _I don’t believe you have asked to get Echo back,_ Bellamy said yesterday, anger rolling off him in waves.

 _Did you?_ Whispers a cruel voice in the back of her mind. _You made a token effort, but as soon as they released Bellamy, you forgot about her_.

Clarke swallows.

That is not true. Prim’Sev had given her reasons for not releasing the spy and they had been reasonable. She wasn’t happy about them, but-

_But you got what you wanted and that retched spy with her plump lips and her soft touches would have to be collateral._

Clarke presses her lips together. No. That's not how it happened.

_But it’s what Bellamy thinks. And it is so perfect, too. With Echo out of the way, he won’t have any reason to shun you, to kick you to the side and leave you alone. If Bellamy comes back, you will get your friends back, too. It is all so perfect._

Clarke fights back the frustrated tears.

The cruel voice in her head is so reasonable, the logic sound and it makes such perfect sense. Except she didn’t plan any of this. True, Echo hadn’t been a top priority once Prim’Sev agreed to release Bellamy. But the graa and Alice and even grim faced Hawel, said the spy wasn’t in real danger. And Bellamy had just lost two of his closest friends, he shouldn’t be chained up, he should be with his friends (family).

“Good morning, Mrs Griffin”, says a young boy dressed in short pants and a soft green and orange shirt. He’s Twitter, one of Madi’s new friends. Clarke can barely muster enough energy to smile at him. She does hug Madi, though, much to the girl’s mortification.

"I’ll see you at lunch, ok?”

"Yes, _mom_ ”, grunts the girl with exasperation, pulling away from the blonde without noticing the way Clarke’s heart clenches. It does so every time Madi calls her that.

She never intended to become Madi’s _mom_. Not once during all the time they lived alone on that deserted planet did the girl call her mom and Clarke always thought their relationship was akin to Bellamy and Octavia’s: an older sister looking after her baby sister. She felt closer to him, thought she understood him better after caring for Madi for so long. They had to be sisters: willing to do anything to keep her charge safe, risking everything for her. (Because if what she did made her a _mother_ , what did Bellamy’s sacrifices make him?). But the name has been popping up more and more often since the arrived at the reservoir, and Clarke can’t deny the thrill that runs through her every time she hears it, can’t hide the pride coursing through her veins.

The teen has left with her friend before Clarke can correct her and the blonde is left rooted to the spot, watching them stand in line to get breakfast, chatting and laughing like she and Wells did back on the Ark.

Not for the first time she finds herself thinking of her best friend. He would’ve loved it here. Wells had been more suited for the gentle calm way of the people here at the reservoir than he ever was for the terrible world of the grounders.

Clarke shakes herself after a moment and turns towards the gray, squat buildings beside the Admission Area. The green door is rusty, the paint peeing off at the corners and around the chrome handle. Beside it there is a small keypad with yellow buttons that click metallic when she presses them. The door opens to a small side room, flooded with the light that streams in through a large, slightly concave, skylight. It is furnished with two of those kneeling chairs the graa prefer, and a table low enough that the huge heigh difference between a graa and a human isn’t an issue.

Prim’Sev’s handmaiden and bodyguard sets a platter of dried meats on the table and smiles at Clarke.

Her name is Kra’Nea. Like all the graa she has unsettlingly symmetrical facial features, a long neck and dark eyes. Her long lashes and the short fuzz covering her from head to toe is nearly white. Unlike Prim’Sev, her horns look more like those of a ram than a deer's antlers, her pointy ears peaking from the proud arch of the ringed half circle they form. Her horns are wrapped in a shiny silver cloth, her bare cloven hooves have been painted gold and around her long arching neck, she wears a glass pendant in the form of a four-winged bird.

Kra’Nea doesn’t speak English, but she always greets Clarke with the same chirrup that means “Hope the gods give you bright suns today.” The blonde smiles and nods towards her with a soft ”Good morning.”

Then she turns and sees Prim’Sev and her mouth goes dry.

Dressed in a light gray tunic decorated with silver thread, the graa woman strikes an imposing figure, all long lines that seem to go on forever. Her movements, delicate and flowing with a grace that makes the human feel clumsy and disheveled by comparison. The graa’s alien-ness is evident in everything, from her deep eyes to the mysterious curling of her smile. "May the gods smile upon you today,” the graa says, bowing her silver-wrapped horns in a graceful circular motion.

Clarke feels herself blush. There’s something in the way Prim’Sev speaks to her, in the way she moves, that makes her feel all fuzzy inside. She looks away first and goes to the table, sitting into the weird kneeling chairs. Figuring those out had taken an embarrassingly long time the first time around.

They drink a cold sweet green liquid from a shared pitcher and pass dried meats and spicy fruits in the traditional graa way - a ritual that reminds Clarke of her limited time among Wonkru. The memory is not welcome.

Ever since she landed, Clarke has been breaking fast with Prim’Sev, getting to know this new, fascinating species’ customs and beliefs, the rich history of her people. The graa has shared some information about the long tiresome wars that brought humans to the brink of extinction when they first arrived. So much of what she has heard is similar to what the Arkers lived when they first landed on the ground.

Today Prim’Sev tells her about the animals they’re eating and the upcoming season’s turn celebration, the new book she’s reading and the possibility of bringing her to see a graa settlement in a few days. The woman’s voice has a song-like quality to it. It drags Clarke away, painting magnificent pictures of eight legged creatures galloping full tilt through pink fields; young graa children (the first ring of their horns barely visible) chasing each other across music-filled squares, the breathtaking Wandering Forest and the six-legged mahi-pa (monkey people) trading foreign trinkets.

”Everything is very hectic now, with the festival approaching. The Forest will be arriving soon, and security has to be increased. That is why I can’t take you yet. But very soon, precious.”

Clarke smiles at the nickname. ”I look forward to it.”

The graa chirrups, inclining her head to the side and pulling on one of the lower spikes of her antlers. She shakes herself a moment later and touches the wrap, making sure it’s still in place.

The horn-wrap is not a fashion choice. As far as Clarke has been able to understand, being seen bare-horned in graa society would be akin to being naked for a human. The cloths they chose are also a declaration of status, wealth and religious belief. The use of silver and golden cloth is reserved only to the followers of the Trik-maen-yokat cult. Alice first explained the cult as a "sort of polytheistic religion revolving around a large pantheon of gods, demigods and heroes linked to the planet’s sun and moons. The trikanaal belief gold and silver are are the colors of the gods and that anything gold and silver is holy.” As she explained, Alice had looked pointedly at Clarke’s yellow hair, which, in the two suns gleams gold and silver in a way that’s different than the ordinary yellow it had on earth.

During a lull in their conversation, Prim’Sev smiles at Clarke over the brim of their shared cup. She licks her thin lips with a purplish cat-like tongue. "I hope your partner is enjoying our planet as much as you are.” Her eyes wander to the rusty metal door. "Maybe, when he is more settled and calm, you could bring him with you. I would enjoy meeting him in less strenuous and upsetting circumstances.

Clarke forces her smile to remain on her face, even if the word _partner_ has her cringing inside. It’s not like Bellamy has been behaving like a partner lately. Nothing he has done since arriving on this planet (since waking up) has been remotely partner-like.

Still, this is the perfect opportunity to ask for Echo. To prove that she actually _cares_ for what happens to the spy.

_I didn’t forget about her. She is fine._

”Bellamy’s worried about his friend, ” Clarke says slowly. The word rings false (the soft touch of two foreheads, words whispered so quietly they feel precious, glances stolen across a vast room full of people; _Quit lurking, babe, I know you’re there;_ a hand on a lower back. The bitter knowledge that it was her in Echo’s place once, it was her the one that softened his face, the one he couldn’t live without), but Clarke cannot bring herself to use another word.

Prim’Sev purses her lips.

The graa have been accommodating and patient, permitting them to land, to settle in the reservoir without quarantining them, testing, probing or "reeducating” them. They are negotiating to get more of the people on Eligius IV down to the planet.

Not for the first time, Clarke is extremely aware of the silver wrap around Prim’Sev’s horns, of the fact that their luck rests on the Prim'Sev being a trikanaal believer in a high position, of Clarke being blonde and the first human on the Eligius IV to make contact with the planet. She feels slightly self-conscious of her golden hair and the way the graa looks at her like she’s something rare and precious.

"Ah, yes! ” The alien makes a twitting noise that Clarke has learned to identify as a laugh, her eyes sparkling with emotion. "Now there’s a curious creature. A fighter the likes of which I hadn’t seen in my life. ” Prim’Sev takes a bite of a juicy pear-shaped blue fruit and passes it over to the blonde. "But, fear not, she will be released shortly back to your partner’s tender care.”

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. She doesn’t want to come across as pushy (doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want the voice in her head to be right. Echo is fine.)

”What’s on your mind, precious?”

 _Spit it out_.

"I was wondering about this reeducation program. ” She has no love for the spy, doesn’t even know her. The only thing she knows is that Roan was fond of her and that Bellamy- Well. Bellamy likes her, too. She knows that should be reason enough to be worried (She is worried, Echo is part of her people).

 _At least now you can say that you tried_ , growls the nasty voice in her head (I do care. Echo is part of my people, all of my people are important). _Even if some are more expendable than others._ Ignoring the voice in her head, she stares at the graa and continues. "It’s just that Bellamy says he heard her scream?”

Prim’Sev twitters her laugh, shaking her head in a sidewise motion. "The program is not painful. It might be uncomfortable, or distressing at first, but not painful. We haven’t used physical punishment in centuries,” she tasks. "Such barbaric measures are not our ways. There is nothing painful about the program, and there shouldn’t be any reasons for screams. Your male was probably having a fit of sensibility. You know how they are, always overreacting and fretting. Poor irrational, little things.”

Clarke fights the urge to frown.

Prim’Sev casual dismissal of anything male feels sort of unsettling. But she knows Bellamy, and _he does_ have a tendency for overreactions, and _he is_ overly dramatic. Maybe that’s it? Maybe he was just worried and imagined it?

 _Liar,_ growls the voice in her head. _Coward._

In the end, Clarke’s saved from having to answer by Kra’Nea stepping forward and singing something into Prim’Sev’s pointy ear. The graa nods with a crestfallen sigh, and answers in their language. She dabs her lips with a cloth napkin and unfolds from the kneeling chair in a slow, graceful movement that seems to go on forever. 

"I need to go now, but I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll bring you something special to celebrate the turn of the season.” She touches the tip of her long pointy nose to Clarke’s brow. “Sweet day and soft bed.”

The human watches the graa walk out of the room, gray tunic swishing around her delicate legs, the five anklets she wears jingling with every step. Only after the two aliens have left, does she let her shoulders sag. 

Clarke stares at the sky for a full minute, trying to collect herself. This was the easiest part of her day, and she isn't sure she's ready to face the consequences of the night before.

She sighs and stands up. This is going to be a very long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always this was unbeta'd.  
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting.


	7. Chapter 7

Clarke sighs and tries to mentally prepare herself to deal with Alice, Bellamy, and Hawel.

Bellamy's excursion, on top of Octavia's violent outburst yesterday are matters that need to be handled ASAP, or their hosts might tire of them and kick them out, and then where would they go? In the reservoir, they are safe, sheltered, and they have a chance to learn about this planet and its inhabitant's customs. If they blow this chance, they will be back where they started when the Ark sent the 100 to the ground. Clarke can't fight another war. She won't.

Feeling a headache starting to pound behind her eyes, Clarke makes her way towards the mechanic’s shop. It’s still early for her meeting, so she might as well visit Raven.

As far as Clarke can tell it's an excellent workshop, with neatly laid out workstations, wide open spaces, and chrome tools. Shaw shares a bench with another man, but Raven has been given a large area towards the end, close to the air-conditioning system and the large windows. The young mechanic is bent over a sizeable engine-looking thing, holding a flashlight between her teeth and trying to reach a nook in the metal with a pair of slim-tipped tweezers.

Seeing her, Clarke has to trample the urge to demand answers for yesterday. Raven was her friend, not so long ago. She trusted her nearly as much as Bellamy. They led together. She is honest and straight-to-the-point, two qualities Clarke appreciates greatly. "Good morning, gorgeous."

They haven't talked since waking up. First, because Clarke thought she needed space to process Monty and Harper's deaths, and then because they've been busy. But if Raven is disabling trackers and putting people in danger behind Clarke's back, this lack of communication needs to stop. Now.

Raven sets her flashlight down beside the machine and grabs another tool from the bench. They've been neatly arranged by length beside the large engine-thingy. Clarke remembers Raven's workshop at the Dropship and in Arkadia. It was never this orderly and the blonde wonders when and why she started being this neat. "Shaw! Take out the trash, will you?"

Clarke swallows the knot in the back of her throat, but it only shifts to the pit of her stomach. "Raven." The mechanic ignores her, putting the flashlight back into her mouth and managing to dislodge something inside the machine. "Raven, I know you're angry with me for what happened on Earth." Nothing. "I am sorry, but you must understand… I never wanted to hurt you."

The woman's hands stop. Slowly she lays her instruments carefully on the table, filling the gaps on her row of tools, straightens and, finally turns towards Clarke. Her eyes blaze like suns. "That line might work on Bellamy. But it doesn't work on me."

“It is the truth. I-I was-“

"Can it, princess." For the first time in ages, the nickname feels like an insult. "You sold us out. You had us tortured." She grits her teeth, visibly reigning her temper in. All too aware of what happens to violent people around here and unwilling to land in ‘self-control-classes’ with Murphy and Bellamy. “The fact that you had a change of heart doesn't make it go away.”

“I thought it was the only way of keeping Madi safe. And for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“It’s worth shit. You being sorry doesn’t mean anything, because you'll turn around and do it all over again."

“That’s not true!”

Raven arches one of her perfect eyebrows. “Bellamy, Murphy and Emori are still in lockup because of you.”

Clarke takes a deep breath through her nose. “We have a chance here, a chance to start anew, to not make the mistakes we did in the past. That’s what Monty wanted.”

"Don't you dare," grits Raven taking a prowling step forward. "You don't get to use Monty against us, not when you forced him to march in the war that ultimately broke him!"

"I didn't force him to march. That was Octavia. I wanted Wonkru to surrender, everything I did was to prevent a war. But she wouldn't and then… Well, everything went pear-shaped." Raven's other eyebrow joins the first one near her hairline. "But now we have a second chance. And you disabling the trackers and helping Bellamy and the others run away is putting that in jeopardy."

“Oh, spare me the hypocrisy, Clarke. You did everything in your power to escape the mountain way before you knew what they were doing. You kicked and clawed and fought to be left out of there, putting the safety of the hundred at risk only because some of your people were missing.”

"They were lying to us!"

Raven barks a mirthless laugh. "You didn't know that! And as far as we know, they are lying to us now, too." Her lips curl into an angry snarl. "But this time it's our friend the one who is missing and you the one who has decided it is fine to be stuck in a reservoir." Raven licks her lips. "Tell me something, when Monty and Jasper told you to let it go, did you?" she doesn't wait for Clarke to answer. "Of course not. Because you decided it was fishy."

“I was right.”

“And we stick together no matter what. _We are one Kru, a family. You attack one of us; you deal with the whole pack. We look after each other. That's_ what Monty and Harper wanted."

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. "So you'll put the whole of the human race at risk?" The mechanic's face is unreadable, and Clarke knows she needs to be careful. "Do you want another war?"

Raven stares at Clarke. Her warm eyes freezing, her face is clean of emotion. (Did she learn this from Echo?) For a long moment, neither woman dares to move. Then, slowly, she speaks, her words measured, cautiously chosen. "You were willing to kill all of us for Madi."

"That's different!" Clarke's heart is racing.

“Why?”

"Madi is my child!" It's the wrong thing to say, and Clarke knows it as soon as her words leave her mouth.

Raven's nostrils flare, but that is the only trace of anger on her beautifully serene face. "Is my family somehow less than yours?" She takes another long, dangerous step forward, righteous anger flowing off her shoulders in waves. "So you having Shaw and me tortured, the whole planet destroyed, _that’s_ ok. That's a necessary evil for Madi's sake." Clarke doesn't want to back down, doesn't want to cower in front of Raven. They were equals once. Once Raven followed her. Clarke swallows and stands her ground. Yes, what she did on Earth was wrong, but she did it for the right reasons. What Raven is doing is a senseless risk. "But when we send three weaponless people to try and sneak Echo out of imprisonment without involving anyone else, assuming the whole blame. That's somehow wrong? _That’s_ what will start a war?”

“Look, I am sorry about-“

"I don't care that you are sorry!" roars Raven and Clarke does take a step back. "I don't care about your motives!"

Clarke presses her lips together. “Echo will be fine.”

"She better be," growls the mechanic her eyes ablaze, muscles shaking with how tense she is. "Because if she isn't-" She swallows, steeling herself and inclines her head, trying for a more matter-of-fact tone. It falls short, drenched as it is in barely contained anger. "Well, _Wanheda_. You might command death, but I am Fayalida kom Spacekru. And I haven’t made anything go boom in over a hundred years.”

Clarke opens her mouth to answer, to tell her…. She isn’t sure anymore. Someone to her left clears his throat.

It’s Fana, Hawel’s assistant. The young man shifts uncomfortably under Raven’s murderous gaze. “Excuse me, Clarke?” His gray eyes jump nervously from one woman to the other. “Hawel and Alice are waiting for you.”

"It seems your new friends need you now," spits the mechanic, turning her back on Clarke and picking her tools back up. "And I have work to do."

"Raven," starts the blonde, but she doesn't know how to continue. "We'll talk later, ok?"

There is no answer, and Clarke turns to follow Fana out of the workshop. She doesn't need the young assistant to guide her to the conference room, but he trots beside her anyway. He looks soft and kind in a way Clarke has seen nowhere but here in the reservoir.

"What does Fayalida kom Spacekru mean?" he asks suddenly. Clarke isn't sure. She knows enough trig to understand the words and she can imagine it's a title the grounders bestowed on Raven, much like Wanheda was forced on her. "Spacekru is the name of her clan," Clarke explains, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. No matter how long she spent alone on Earth, she never stopped thinking of herself as Skaikru. Her friends, on the other hand, decided to form a new clan, distance themselves from their people down on the ground, from her. "They lived in a space station for nearly a decade. _Kom_ can be translated as _'from._ '" Fana stays quiet, waiting for her to get to the less obvious word. "Fayalida means ‘Bringer of fire.' _'Faya_ ' being 'fire,' and _'lida_ ,' 'bringer.'"

Fana hums. There isn’t much to say.

"So, she brings the fire?"

"It's an honorific title. Only great warriors get those." She didn't know that Raven had one. Does Bellamy have one, too? Murphy? Monty and Harper? What great stories did the grounders tell about her friends? She never heard them.

(Or is it something Echo gave them while on the Ring?)

She enters the conference room. It's small, windowless and metallic, located inside the grounded Eligius III spaceship and furnished with a desk and five chairs bolted to the paneled floor.

Alice and Hawel stand at one end of the room furiously whispering back and forth when Fana opens the door for Clarke and they quickly shut up when she enters. The redheaded woman smiles kindly. She's dressed in an emerald green dress with red high-heeled shoes and matching fingernails. Clarke doesn't understand the point of her wild getups, but she has to admit the woman looks stunning, the vibrant color of her dress highlighting her carefully coiffed hair and the creamy paleness of her freckled skin.

Hawel wears a suit and blue shirt, the golden buttons fastened at the side from shoulder to hip, making him look slimmer than he is and bringing out the intensity of his slanted dark eyes.

Something Clarke has noticed since arriving at the human reservoir is that the clothes are made to flatter the wearer’s figure, unlike on the Ark, where clothes were repurposed and used until they fell to pieces.

"How have you slept, honey?" asks Alice with a smile that shouldn't look as natural, as honest as it does.

"Fine, thank you," she answers feeling slightly wrong-footed. Alice's permanent good mood is unsettling. She feels more comfortable with Hawel's scowl and brusqueness. "Yourself?"

"Oh, I had the most surreal dream," says the woman conversationally. "I must tell you all about it."

Clarke's spared from having to answer by the door swishing open and Bellamy marching into the room like he's about to go to war. He looks like he did all those years ago when it was just the two of them leading a ragtag bunch of terrified teens against a world they didn't understand. A little older, with a touch of gray gracing his temples, and the beard is definitely new, but the storm in his eyes, the set of his shoulders and the clenching of his jaw are all the same and Clarke’s heart twists painfully.

He's here to fight them and when he inevitably loses he'll do whatever he believes is best, just like he did all those years ago when it was Finn and Murphy in danger, and Abby told him to stay put, and he sneaked out anyway.

_Damn you, you stubborn, stubborn man._

Bellamy looks around the room and throws himself on one of the chairs, slouching in a display of careless arrogance she would’ve expected from Murphy.

"You wanted to talk with me?" he drawls, voice rumbling deep in his throat, eyes roaming lazily from stormy Hawel to a suddenly serious Alice and finally to Clarke.

Hawel's hackles rise, with one long step he approaches the Spacekru leader, should for all intents and purposes be dwarfing him with his large frame and perfectly ironed suit, but Bellamy, dirty, rumpled and tired, with dark circles under his eyes, arches an eyebrow and clenches his jaw and refuses to be diminished. Sprawled as he is on his chair, he's the exact image of the Rebel King that ruled the dropship camp with an iron fist, who would never let anyone question his authority. (Who, in the safety of the highest level of the Dropship, cried for hours after Charlotte died, clawing at Clarke's back while she tried to comfort him).

"We know you are new here and don't entirely grasp the rules," states Alice, her polite smile in place, a long-nailed hand on Hawel's arm. "But what happened yesterday cannot happen again. For all our sakes."

“Then let me go out the main door.”

Hawel growls deep in his chest, his hands tightening around the backrest of one of the chairs.

"We cannot do that, honey," says Alice, her voice as kind and patient as always.

“Then I guess you don’t want to prevent what happened yesterday from happening again tonight. And tomorrow night, and the one after that and every single night until I get Echo back, _honey_.”

"Good grief," grumbles Hawel.

"Are you aware of how lucky you are? The graa have done nothing but help you since you arrived."

Bellamy narrows his eyes and Clarke sighs, coming closer. “I have spoken with Prim’Sev today. She has assured me Echo is fine and they’ll be releasing her shortly.”

"Fine?" The Spacekru leader unfolds, rising slowly and menacingly. He shouldn't look as big as he does, not with the diet he had on the Ring, not with how little he's been eating. Not when Hawel is a good ten inches taller than him. "I heard her _wailing_. I heard her scream through stone walls.”

“She probably has a low tolerance; it happens sometimes” Alice makes a dismissive movement with her hand. “The process is really not painful at all.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke tries again. “Prim’Sev assured me they are not harming her.”

"Excuse me if I have a hard time believing the word of someone that chained me up." It feels like a punch to the gut. (Screams and the rattling of chains and a metal door she doesn't dare open. _It is what needs to be done._ _It is what needs to be done. I am sorry I am sorry, I am sorry_ ).

"I trust Prim'Sev's word. She has done nothing but be kind to us, help us. She says the process is not painful. I believe her."

"It isn't. It's uncomfortable, dear, but it is not that bad."

Like Raven in her workshop, Clarke can see him visibly reining in his temper. "Ok. Tell me. Explain how this process works. What do they do?"

Alice relaxes, the tightness around her eyes smoothing out. She sits and waits until Bellamy does the same.

“Bear in mind that it _is_ meant as a punishment." She waits until Bellamy nods to continue, matter-of-factly, but not harshly. "They take your worst memory and play it over and over while explaining what you've done wrong. See? Nothing that bad, if you think about it."

Bellamy rolls his tongue over his teeth; dark eyes pinning Alice down like a bug. His right hand is white-knuckled around his left elbow. His voice vibrates around his teeth as he asks: "What is your worst memory, Alice?"

She blushes visibly, looks to Hawel and back at Bellamy, shifting in her seat. "Well…" she chuckles with embarrassment. "Back then it was a memory of the time I fell in the woods and broke my leg. I spent the whole day in a ditch, couldn't come back, and had to wait for someone to find me. It was very scary."

Bellamy's eyes flit to Clarke, and she knows what he's thinking, because, she is, too. He leans forward, deliberately resting his elbows on his knees. The movements wooden and controlled, his hands shake, eyes shimmer with unshed tears. "Let me tell you a little about my Echo, maybe you'll understand." He swallows, his eyes wandering down to his big hands. Bellamy rolls tongue over his teeth. Clarke wants to leave; she doesn't want to hear what he has to say.

_Coward._

"She was recruited at age six to become a spy for a blood-thirsty tyrant who hated her guts. Age seven and a half she was thrown into a fighting pit and forced to kill a boy twice her age. At fourteen she had to slice the beating heart out of her first crush's chest as a test of her loyalty. She was put inside a cage, electrocuted, drugged and drained for blood like a pig. She was banished from her clan and sent to space with a bunch of strangers and former enemies before she even knew what a rocket ship was. My wife broke her arm and kept it quiet for three days to ‘not be an inconvenience.'" Clarke tears her eyes away from Bellamy's. Hawel looks nearly green. Alice, on the other hand, is white as freshly fallen snow, her eyes round as saucers. "So, do you think you can understand why I might be worried that some alien species is messing around in her brain?"

The silence that falls over the room is cold and stifling.

It’s too much, too much information, too much pain. Clarke wants to say something, but she has no words.

Of course, she knew that life on the ground was difficult, and she knew of kill marks and child-warriors, she even knew that Nia was a cruel queen, but- But she never imagined-

 _You should have asked Prim’Sev what they were doing_ , whispers that same cruel voice in her mind. _Or maybe you imagined and hoped she wouldn’t come back._

No. She hadn't. She didn't want that. She doesn't want Echo to suffer.

Alice is the first one to recover her voice. Gone is the cheerful cadence to her words, though “Give us two days to try and arrange a quicker discharge of your wife due to extenuating circumstances. Can you do that?”

Bellamy stares at her for a whole minute. He looks tired. He looks old. “Two days.”

“Thank you, Bellamy. You can leave now.”

“Mori and Murphy?”

"They will be released immediately. As will Octavia. I trust none of them will try to leave again?"

"I answer only for Spacekru," he raises, slowly, broken. "But I will talk to Octavia."

“You still need to attend the violence-control therapy with Murphy and Octavia.”

He nods. "All right."

He's at the door when Hawel manages to shake himself enough to say: "You can come to us, you know? Humans, we stick together."

Bellamy turns to him. He looks smaller now. There is a tear rolling down his cheek, another glistens, trapped in his beard. He sighs, his voice soft when he speaks.

“Not in my experience, they don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't betad   
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting


	8. Chapter 8

Jordan is 90% sure he isn't supposed to eat inside the little chapel. Still, he sits in one of the worn wooden benches and unwraps his sandwich.

The dusty altar is covered by a moth-eaten grayish cloth and holds a series of icons from the Pre-Ark era. Jordan recognizes some of them. Mom used to teach him about the Pre-Ark age, talking about the large cities and lush forests, the technological wonders and the terrible, terrible weapons that killed the planet. She used to tell him stories about the 10.000 civilizations that populated it: the different gods and the weird status quos, the complicated rule-systems and the fascinating history of conquest and empires. He can nearly hear mom's self-conscious chuckle: "I'm sorry, kiddo. Bellamy was better at telling these stories and keeping the dates straight."

In the center of the altar, sitting on the backs of three golden angels is a blue plastic ball, painted with different colors to symbolize the many countries that existed in the Pre-Ark era.

Mom said things like gods and heroes are essential, a way to connect people. She told him about the warrior heroes of Azgeda and the cunning heroes of the Wastelanders. He himself had heroes: calm Bellamy and immortal Murphy, smart Raven, cunning Clarke, loyal Miller, or powerful Echo.

He has met most of his heroes by now. They are so much more than he ever imagined- so much less, too.

It is painful seeing them torn down, seeing their flaws, the way they struggle and carry their sorrow on their sleeves. In mom and dad's stories, it seemed like they were always so sure. Murphy might be an ass sometimes, but he always survived, he always got the upper hand and came out on top with a shit-eating grin and a sarcastic comment. Bellamy was a wall of self-controlled calmness, a leader with encouraging and rousing words, forever ready. Raven was this larger-than-life genius he's had a crush on since he was 8, always prepared to get her people out of tight spots.

But now he has seen them: has seen Bellamy struggle and Murphy roar in frustration and Raven at a loss, staring at her tools without knowing what to do. When he came back to their shared rooms, Murphy, Bellamy, and Emori weren't there, and today he woke up to their still-made beds and them in lock up. He woke up to Raven repeatedly punching a mattress held up by Shaw while growling in a mix of trig and English.

Jordan sighs.

He isn't sure he likes these heroes more or less with all their flaws. He isn't sure what he's supposed to do. Go with them? Try and be a part of Spacekru? Do they even want him? He has seen how Bellamy and Raven and Murphy and Emori look at him. How they try to hide the fact that he reminds them of his parents, he reminds them of the friends they've lost. Part of him is convinced they only tolerate him because mom and dad told them to look after him. Not that he needs to be looked after; he is old enough to take care of himself.

The sandwich crunches between his teeth. It tastes like cheese and something greenish. The bread is coarse on his tongue, and it leaves crumbs everywhere. The cheese-like slice inside is slick, and the green and blue stuff are cold and watery.

It tastes better than algae.

(He misses algae so much.)

Jordan’s eyes wander over the different symbols: he sees a many-armed lady, a metal cross, a jade man.

Nobody comes here to this shrine made for Earth.

People have moved on from the gods of the past. Some of them have converted to graa doctrines, others don't believe in anything. Most have created a new religion, speak about new heroes.

Did they meet their gods among the stars and found them lacking? Or is this some sort of evolution?

On the Ark, they honored the ground. They offered sacrifices to a tree and thought of the final journey to the ground when they would be able to run free.

On the ground, they worshiped knowledge and the immortal spirits of Commanders and Nature. They followed the wisdom of their ancestors and offered sacrifices to spirits of War and Spring, and Rain, longing to be reunited in the grand Halls of their forefathers where they would never go hungry or feel pain again.

On this new planet, humans dream of a life in which they don't need to work, in which the blue skies shine with the only sun of the planet they once lived in. Awaiting the arrival of the Pilot who will bring Eligius III off the ground.

"Hey mom, dad," he whispers, his voice quiet in the empty building. "How have you been?" he's always awkward at first. Unused to talking to an empty room, but it helps get his thoughts in order. It makes him feel less alone. Jordan can imagine mom sitting off to the side, brushing her hair, or dad checking balances, his feet kicked up on the desk. (Mom hated when he did that) "We are securing the greenhouses, and digging out in the south-eastern field, cutting any root that might be there from the crops. Everyone is a little nervous with the arrival of the Second Spring. They have a lot of seasons here." Jordan chuckles, casts his eyes around the room. The walls are made of concrete and decorated with old-looking paintings in frames. His favorites are to his left: a man standing on top of a mountain, contemplating a sea of clouds. Its counterpart hangs beside it: a woman gazing out of a window into a blue ocean.

"Apparently it's because, at the Second Spring, the Wandering Forests arrive, and they might infect our crops if they get to their roots. We are checking the fences, too. It's hard work. I like it."

If he's working, he's tired and can't think about the lack of a roof, about the fact that if gravity failed, he would float away into space. He can't think about how lonely he is or how much he misses his parents, how weird and fascinating everything is. How scared he is, how little he fits in, how, when many people are talking, he loses pieces of the conversation, how he cannot keep track of so many people, how they all look kind of the same, how they all sound weird, how peculiar they all think he is.

How thoroughly he’s letting his parents down.

“Echo is still missing.”

The warrior came to him one night before disappearing. He was sitting in front of the large bay window, looking down at the gleaming planet, unable to sleep. He had been crying, throat raw and eyes so dry, his head hurt.

And then there was Echo, fierce straightness to her back and proud cheekbones, hair flowing in waves around pale skin, thick fur jacket wrapped around her like armor, long knife strapped to her thigh.

She didn't walk, she floated, all grace and control. Jordan brushed his tears away hurriedly before the great warrior could see him like this. She came to a halt beside him, gazing out the large windows with her cat-like caramel eyes.

He had felt so inadequate in the silence.

"New beginnings are terrifying, aren't they?" she sat down, her back ramrod straight, face soft under the planet's light. "Your mother was the first to reach out to me when I joined Spacekru. It is a gift not many are inclined to give."

Jordan remembers how confused he was "What is?"

"Being kind to strangers." She licked her full lips, turning to look at him. "You mustn't be scared. As long as there is breath in my body, you shall have the protection of a Kru."

Jordan had tried to fight against the new tears, but she smiled, her long-fingered hand landing on his bent knee. "There is no shame in weeping, Jordan. We all miss them." She sighed. "But they had good deaths, and that means we will meet them again one day. And when that day comes, you will be able to regale them with tales of your own, and they will be proud."

Proud. How on earth is he going to make his parents proud if he can’t even fit in? If he’s-?

“I knew I would find you here.”

Jordan jumps nearly a foot in the air, knocking his knee against the backrest of the bench in front of him, and biting a curse that would've made his dad cuff him on the back of the head.

“Yahaan. What are you doing here?” His voice comes out harsher than he intended, and Jordan feels himself blush with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“I come here to think from time to time. It’s the quietest place in the whole reservoir.”

Jordan nods.

Yahaan is quiet for a moment. He is an agricultural engineer, perpetually dressed in mud-covered pants inside squeaky water boots and fuzzy pullovers with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He's a few years older than Jordan, his skin coarse and tanned after so much time working the vast fields. He has an easy smile, too small glasses always precariously perched on the tip of his hooked nose, and curly hair that constantly falls into his face. He pushes it out of the way with a mud-caked hand, leaving a smudge on his forehead. "How are you doing?"

“I’m fine,” is Jordan’s automatic answer.

Not so long ago, he would've told Yahaan everything that was bothering him. But he has learned that's not how the world works. Ordinary people, they are always ‘fine,' even when they are barely keeping it together. Maybe that's why Murphy is still his favorite. He might be crass and sarcastic, but that angry, violent man is as honest, and earnest with his feelings as anyone can possibly get.

"Of course you are." Yahaan plops down beside him on the bench, quietly studying the altar and the array of icons on top of it. "My mom passed five years ago. Cancer. It ate away at her until there was nothing left. It still hurts, you know?" He licks his lips. "That's why I come here, sometimes. My mom was the last believer of the old religions." He chuckles. "Tried to get me into it, but I've always been a bit of a skeptic."

Yahaan presses his lips into a white line, nodding slightly to himself. “What about you? Your parents were believers, too?”

"No. But they told me about these things. They lived on the planet" Jordan makes a vague gesture to the globe perched on the backs of angels, "for a while, at least. They used to tell stories about it. The blue sky and the sprawling forests. Their home was called Arkadia."

Yahaan hums. "They were at war more times than not on the ground. And when they lived on the Ark, there were so many restrictions. They would've loved it down here."

They lapse back into silence.

“You never talk about space. Don’t you miss it?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I shouldn’t, should I? Mom and dad fought so hard to get me to the ground. And it is incredible. There are so many colors, and so many smells and flavors and it goes on forever.”

“I miss my mom’s cooking,” offers Yahaan and Jordan snorts a laugh.

"I spent twenty-seven years eating a green sludge of pungent algae. I do most definitely _not_ miss my parents cooking.”

The agricultural engineer laughs hard and loud, the sound bouncing off the walls.

“I do miss my dad’s singing, though. And the hum of the thrusters. It’s hard to sleep when the only thing I hear is Raven’s snoring.

“If it gets really bad, the graa can help,” the curly-haired man says slowly. “You can ask Alice or Hawel, they can contact the neighbor graa settlement.”

Jordan frowns. “Help how?”

"The graa have ways to change how we think. Help block bad memories, they leave only the good behind. They are all about preventing unnecessary suffering." Jordan shudders. Yahaan's words rubbing him the wrong way.

“But you haven’t gone to them about your mom?”

The man offers a crooked smile. "I like the bad memories. I believe it makes us cherish the good stuff. And, as long as it doesn't influence my day to day life, nobody cares what you carry around with you." Yahaan's eyes are a deep reddish copper, flecked with gold and green.

“I don’t think I’d want to forget about my parents.”

Something unsettling flashes in the other man's eye but it's gone so quickly, Jordan can’t make any sense of it.

Yahaan claps him on the back in the way Jordan has seen adults greeting each other. "Come on, let's get back to work. We need to finish the bloody fence before tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting :D


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to his expertise at his father's hydroponic farm, Jordan was assigned a job in the big farms surrounding the reservoir. He's been helping around in the different areas, as well as attending night school to learn about this planet as well as modern farming techniques. After his first week, Yahaan asked him to join his team, placing him under his direct supervision. Which means he won't get a chance to work with livestock.

As they walk towards the southeastern field, they pass the pens with the scaled, lizard-like creatures (baba) humans call chickens. One of the creatures snaps it toothed beak at Jordan. They cross through the large warehouse where the ‘sheep’ sleep (haah). One of the two-legged animals lays on its side, staring stupidly at the wall with its single eye. It emits a high-pitched cry that sounds like a breathless laugh. And finally, make their way between the fifty glittery greenhouses.

Jordan loves the greenhouses. Long glass structures that glitter in the suns, lined with rows upon rows of strange, exciting plants. The air inside is thick with humidity and alive with the hum of lamps and air-filtration-rotors, the light tinted green and blue and ochre. This is Saula's territory.

The bald forty-two-year-old man is a recluse, and Jordan has only caught glimpses of him in the fortnight since he arrived at the reservoir: thin, unending legs; large eyes on a gaunt, eyebrow-less face, way too many arms.

Yahaan told Jordan that Saula is a bastard, the weird cross between a human and one of the monkey-people. "Sometimes people fuck them. Sometimes it's a dare, or they're curious, you know? But if a human gets pregnant with one of them, they usually get rid of it, or they leave with the Wandering Forest. Saula's mom was the first to keep the kid. And Saula just refuses to be with his kind."

They exit the greenhouse area and Yahaan curses. His team is standing awkwardly at the edge of a field, while a large group of people with equipment Jordan has never seen before roam about on the field.

"Kala says she has permission from the council," starts to say one of the workers when Yahaan comes closer. "The forms seem to be in order."

"I don't care. Get back to work! This needs to be finished by tonight." Jordan has never seen Yahaan being anything but perfectly amiable. (In fact, he hasn't seen any of the humans in the reservoir be anything but friendly.) Now, though, the agricultural engineer storms over to a short woman, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun and eyes covered by sunglasses. She's murmuring with a pair dressed in beautiful dresses. "KALA!"

The woman's shoulders drop as she pulls her head back with a groan. Her sunglasses reflect Yahaan's angry face like tiny green-tinted mirrors.

"I have all the right to be here, Yahaan. We filed the proper paperwork and put an announcement at the News board. If you don't read your news, it's not my fault."

"I don't care about your permits, Kala. We have actual work that needs to be done."

Jordan can't read this woman's expression, not with her shiny glasses and unsettling little smile. "Every job is necessary, Yahaan. Mine so happens to make people happy. And I can't do that if I can't finish my movie. So, you would do us all a favor if you just stood aside and let us work."

"We need to fence off this area. We need to uproot any sapling and bring it to the other side of the-"

"All very noble, but until the council tells me my permits are no longer valid, the field is mine for the day."

Yahaan pinches the bridge of his nose. By this point, Murphy's hands would be balled into fists, his whole body alive with barely contained tension.

"It needs to be done before first sun tomorrow. Your filming takes all day. We will need to pull an all-nighter. And a storm could blow in at any minute."

An eyebrow appears over the rim of Kala's sunglasses. The sky is clear as can be, the suns beating down on them, making their skins glistening with sweat. "A storm? Really?"

"The meteorologists have said there would be a storm tonight. Which is why we need to get this done today."

"You are not the only one on a schedule. But, unlike you, I cannot work without the suns. So, beat it, before I decide to extend my shooting until the end of the week."

"You would need an open slip for that, Kala."

The woman grins, it is an ugly, twisted thing full of yellowing teeth. She produces a pink slip of paper. "I know how to do my job, Yahaan. If you needed the field, you should've filed the proper paperwork."

Yahaan turns on his heel, calling his team.

"What are we going to do?" asks a large, cross-eyed man.

"We are going to get rest. As soon as the first sun sets, we will be back to finish the job."

"But it's going to take all night!"

"Thank you for stating the obvious, Greg," grumbles Yahaan.

"Yeah, thank you, Greg," mumbles someone else. Some laugh, Greg is not amused.

"I will talk to the council, see if we can kick this vermin out before sunsdown. Goa, you stay here, as soon as they finish, you call us back. With a little bit of luck, we will have the work nearly completed by the time the storm rolls in." They all look up at the still clear sky. "Dismissed."

Nobody seems happy, but they do disband quickly, leaving Jordan to watch the proceedings. There are a lot of hand-held machines, people running around the pair wrapped in beautiful dresses.

"You're one of the spacies, aren't you?" The petite woman suddenly at his side seems to have sprouted directly from the ground. She has a pixy haircut, large eyes and a heart-shaped mouth in a heart-shaped face.

"My name is Jordan."

The woman nods three times. "I am Dat." she sticks out a paint-splattered hand. "Make-up artist."

"Pleasure." He licks his lips. "What are you guys doing?"

"A prism through time."

Jordan blinks at her, and the pixy girl laughs. "It is a movie. Kala wrote it. An epic romance across time. Lauree" she points at one of the nicely dressed women "is from the pre-war era, one of the first settlers. Damned to die at the hands of the graa hunters. Ofal" Dat points at the other nicely dressed lady, "she is trying to find a way of bringing Lauree to the future, where she can escape the massacre and live happily ever after."

He looks at the two lovers with a frown. "Do they make it?"

"That'll depend on how Kala's feeling when the editing starts. She might kill everyone off if she's feeling spiteful. Yahaan hates dramatic endings as much as Kala loves messing with him."

"We are doing important work here."

Dat frowns, throws her shoulders back. "Are you implying we are not?"

"I am only saying, you are telling a story. You could tell it somewhere else, sometime else."

"Except we can't. We have to file a lot of permits to film in exteriors, and this is the only place big enough with access to the forest and little to no chance for people to wander into shot. We filed our paperwork, Yahaan is always complaining, but he hasn't filled a form since he was made head agri engineer. He had it coming."

"But isn't agriculture more important to people's survival than stories."

"People need entertainment as well as a full belly."

Someone calls Dat, and the little pixy flits towards the beautiful leads of the story. Jordan watches the group moving around, doing whatever they need to, repeating the same actions over and over in an exhausting music-less dance.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I could get a better feel of Murphy. Now it is a lot more complicated to slip into his mind, is it lack of practice? the character's evolution? Who knows. But I couldn't look at this thing anymore, so here it is. Hope you enjoy it and that Murphy isn't completely OOC

Violence-Control-Therapy is boring. Not as dull as mopping floors all day, or sitting in a holding cell, though.

Murphy is pretty sure the whole thing was created on the fly when the last survivors of Earth came down to the tidy and controlled reservoir. More to the point: when he - Murphy - proved not to be as obedient and trusting as people expected him to be. After spending his first three days refusing to get processed by the disturbingly cheery admissions personnel, he was told he had to go to violence-control-class. Until Bellamy punched Alice, he was the only pupil in Tip's classroom, and he had to sit on the first row and listen to the middle-aged man drone on and on about wars, bar-fights and mistreatment while a slideshow played behind him, illustrating his points with graphic images and videos from newsreels and old movies.

Murphy enjoyed getting under Tip's skin. Everything is scandalous to this man, but that was only a small entertainment, and when everything is enough to launch a tirade, it grows repetitive rather quickly.

With Bellamy, the classes are less fastidious, mainly because now Tip, their middle-aged teacher, can sit them one in front of the other and do "opening up exercises."

Which mainly consist of staring at one another and repeating the weird lovey-dovey mantras Tip had them memorize, trying hard not to laugh at the ridiculousness of their situation.

Murphy is convinced this is a giant waste of time, but he has no say in the matter. Although hearing Bellamy repeatedly state "I reach out to you with my heart open," with his dead-serious face might become a problem. (Damn this man and his stupidly earnest brown eyes).

The problem is not that the sessions are pointless, or that they’re boring.

The problem is the 5.5 feet of ex-dictator standing awkwardly at the door. The problem is Bellamy, sitting beside him, carefully unclenching his fists. The problem is that Bellamy is stressed, tired and worried like he hasn't been since the first two years on the Ring. With his defenses low and Octavia right there, looking small and uncertain, he'll break, he'll start catering to her, letting her back in to do as much damage as she wishes.

Murphy feels his hackles rise.

He has lost Monty and Harper already, he is not about to let Octavia destroy anyone else he cares about.

Not in a million years is he going to let her ruin Bellamy.

“Ah! Octavia!” says Tip, a wide yellowing smile on his face. “Welcome. Come on sit. Boys, why don’t we open up the circle for Octavia?” The young woman pads closer, taking a seat between Tip and Murphy. The teacher beams. “Alright. I assume you guys know each other.”

Bellamy remains quiet. Ever since his talk with Alice, Clarke, and Hawel this morning he's been lost in thought, shaking himself every now and then to pay attention to his surroundings.

No matter, that's what Spacekru is for: to keep an eye on him, make sure everything's ok.

“Bellamy is my brother,” says Octavia, her eyes defiant in spite of her attempt at looking meek and awkward.

Murphy huffs a humorless laugh and Octavia growls. “Do you have to say anything about it, cockroach?”

“Now, now, we don’t do any name-calling here. This is a safe space.”

“Cockroach is not an insult. It’s my title. Speaking of which have you told them about yours, Blodreina?”

"Why? You'll make me fight for my life?"

"Don't go there?"

“I did what had to be done to keep my people alive.”

“And what a great job you did.”

“Why don’t we dial it back a little?” tries Tip, but Octavia doesn’t listen.

“And what did you do up in space? Got your fill of algae? Managed to drive people insane? How did Raven take it, having to be stuck with you up there.”

“At least I didn’t kill a third of my population.”

"I had no choice. But what would you know about that? You never cared about anything but your filthy skin."

“Spare me, Skairipa.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Including forcing Mon-Monty to march? Did you have to burn that farm?”  
“Yes.” There’s a tear hanging from Octavia’s long dark eyelashes. It doesn’t fall. Something ugly twists in Murphy’s belly. _Why the hell doesn’t it fall?_ "Yes, I had to burn that farm to get my people to move to a place where they would never have to eat that disgusting thing ever again! Where they wouldn't need to face off in a blood-soaked arena for stealing blankets." Murphy feels sick to his stomach. Not for the first time, he's thankful he never had to see the bunker after six years of Blodreina's autocratic reign. The rattrap was nightmarish enough without adding the bloodstained walls and skeletons. "I did it so that they would be free to have kids without asking for permission. Where I didn't have to sentence siblings-"

She bites her tongue, her eyes flitting from him to her brother.

It dawns on him like a blow. He had heard half tales about the Dark Year, but now it makes so much sense. Cannibalism isn't that unheard of when facing starvation. It happened on the Ark, it happened in that movie Raven likes. But that doesn't explain the ruthlessness and sorrow. It alone doesn't explain the fear that creeps into Octavia's eyes as she looks at her brother.

Dead siblings and population control measures, though. Those do.

Murphy feels a chill running down his spine. He should keep his mouth shut. "Dear God. You turned into Jaha." He should stop now. But this is the woman responsible for Monty's death. And he wants her destroyed. He doesn't feel the smirk that pulls at his lips. "Bet your mother would be proud."

Murphy is a specialist in breaking people, cracking them open to see all the nasty stuff they want to keep hidden. He has a talent to know exactly which words to use, what buttons to push. But, unlike Clarke, who uses the same abilities to get what she wants, he seems to only excel at tearing people apart. He knows exactly how much pressure to apply before someone shatters.

Unfortunately, he seems to lack the self-restraint to stop just short of the breaking point. The little voice in his head whispering "what if?" is too tantalizing. He needs to see the darkness they try to hide. He needs to taste that moment of complete an utter _truth._

That little voice, that curiosity, that primordial need has landed him in the med bay more times than he cares to admit.

He knows, it will eventually get him killed.

Eventually might be right now.

Murphy's curled up on the floor, hands over his head trying to protect his face from the brutal onslaught. He can hear his heart beating furiously in his ears. His ribs scream at him, and it's difficult to breathe. One of the blows lands on his still-healing shot wounds, and he has to bite back a scream.

Murphy isn’t looking, so he doesn’t know how Bellamy manages to subdue his sister. The only thing he knows is: he was on the floor, Octavia raining fists on him, and now Tip’s helping him up and Bellamy has his knee lodged between Blodreina’s shoulder blades, one hand fisted in her hair.

“That is enough, are we clear?” growls the Spacekru leader. Octavia wiggles and buckles, trying to get her brother off. He pulls on her hair, pressing her face firmly into the floor. “Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“You will sit down and behave.”

“Yes.”

Slowly, like he isn't convinced she'll obey, Bellamy stands up, backing away. The look he throws in Murphy's direction is murderous, and the younger man feels himself flushing with embarrassment. For having to be rescued or for poking the bear in the first place, he isn't sure.

“Are you ok, Murphy?” asks Tip, looking concerned.

Murphy makes a quick check of everything that hurts and throws his teacher an impish smile – it hurts to twist his lip, and his mouth tastes like blood- "Yeah, she didn't hit anything important."

“Good, good.” Tip takes a deep breath. Now. I think we need to talk about all this behavior: You poking Octavia and Octavia losing her temper like that. Wouldn’t you agree?”

No, Murphy wouldn't agree. He doesn't have anything left to say to Octavia, nor does he need to find out anything else about her.

One look from Bellamy's blazing eyes is enough for the defiance to sizzle out of him. He sits down.

“Alright.” Tip rubs his hands together. “Why don’t we start with this Jaha character. Who is he?”

Octavia crosses her arms across her chest.

“He was our Chancellor in the Ark,” explains Bellamy tiredly. “The space station we lived in before going down to Earth.”

"I guess he wasn't very popular."

“He did what he had to do,” grumbles Octavia, and that is new. Murphy would never have expected her, of all people, to say something positive about the man.

"He was bat shit crazy," is all Murphy has to say.

“He was forced to enforce some unpopular laws. They got a lot of people killed,” Bellamy stares the other two into submission.

“Ok. So I understand none of you really like this man. Especially you, Murphy.”

He smiles his most crooked smile and Tip shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “So why would you call Octavia names. You must know that is not nice.”

“I wasn’t trying to be nice.”

“Because of the farm incident.” Tip turns his warm eyes towards Octavia. “Murphy is displeased with your behavior at the farm. Someone got hurt by your actions, Octavia. What do you have to say to that?”

“Since when have you cared about Monty, you self serving cockroach? You were ready to kill his best friend because he kept you up at night.”

“I don’t know, Octavia, it might have been the six years I spent in a metal can with him.”

“Oh, you bought yourself a conscience in those six years, too?”

“Why is it so unbelievable that I would actually care for Monty?”

“Because you are incapable of caring about anything but yourself.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Except I care about my people.”

“Is Bellamy the exception or is throwing people into fighting pits your way of saying I love you.”

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Bellamy's chair clatters loudly to the ground. "I can't stand this anymore." Tip opens his mouth to protest, but one look from Bellamy shuts him up. The Spacekru leader turns on his heel and marches out of the room, whole body shaking with barely contained energy.

Murphy feels his ears burn with embarrassment. He bites his bottom lip, unsure if he should follow his leader or let him be until he calms down.

Usually, when Murphy gets on his nerves, Bellamy takes it out in the sparring ring, and by supper, everything is forgotten.

Only now his sparring partner isn’t here to tire him out, and he is not annoyed. He is angry.

Murphy stands, picks the chair up and turns to Tip, his eyes land on Octavia instead, and there is that venom again, burning in the back of his throat, urging him to tear her apart once again. Instead, he turns and exits the room.

He finds Bellamy at the door of their dorm. His fists pressed to the wood, body tense and unmoving. "Bellamy?" The other man doesn't answer. Doesn't even blink. "Bellamy, I am sorry."

“I can’t,” his voice shakes. “I can’t deal with this anymore.”

Murphy swallows.

 _He's going to kick you out_ , whispers a tiny voice in his head. He feels panic setting deep in his belly and tries desperately to control it. He opens his mouth to say…. Anything. Anything at all that will convince Bellamy to give him a second chance. But the older man isn’t done talking.

“Monty is gone, Harper is gone, Gods know what they are doing to Echo, and I need you guys more than ever. I need to trust you, and know that you have my back."

“I do!”

“Picking fights with Octavia is not helping.”

_She is poison. She is poison that wants to destroy you._

"I only told the truth."

"You provoked her knowing full well what would happen." Murphy bites his tongue, and Bellamy _finally_ turns towards him. “Why?”

_Because she wants in and wants to control and destroy you. Because you deserve better._

“Because she will end up hurting you again.”

Murphy isn’t a man of much insight, he knows. But he remembers the Bellamy that came down to the ground. The fierce protector of his sister. He recalls a hundred small stories Bellamy told on the Ring about his beautiful, passionate sister, and he remembers the way his leader's mouth shaped Octavia's name, the way he flinched over memories, and half-truths.

Murphy remembers Harper’s description of the beating. The quietness of her voice, the horror of knowing she was there and didn’t stop it. _Bellamy didn’t even try to raise his hands_.

Murphy isn’t a man of much insight, he doesn’t care about much, but he cares about his new-found family. And he cares about Bellamy.

The older man sighs. “I think I am capable of defending myself.”

“Isn’t that what we are for?”

He stares at Murphy, long and hard, his eyebrow arched like he can’t believe what just came out of his mouth – truth be told, Murphy can’t either. “Getting yourself killed by my sister isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Bah! Your sister wouldn’t have killed me. Tip wouldn’t have let her.”

Bellamy chuckles and shakes his head. "My sister- she's my problem."

“No, she’s not. She is rotten.”

Bellamy glowers. “Some would think the same of you.” It feels like a slap – a well earned one, but a slap nonetheless.

“Takes one to know one.”

"And still we gave you a second chance, and a third, and as many as you need, because you are family, and family is there to pick you up when you fall." He lays a hand on his shoulder. "You cannot protect me from this, Murphy. I know my sister, and I know she'll hurt me again. I am not delusional enough to think things will ever be as they were on the Ark. But this is a planet that has granted us a chance to start anew. And, if she is willing to change, if she is willing to come back to me, I will be here for her, and my door will be open." He sighs. "I don't expect you to understand, but, please, stop antagonizing her. Help her, like you helped Monty and Echo and Emori and me."

Murphy sighs. “This is a mistake.”

Bellamy chuckles. “It’s what good guys would do.”

“I hate being a good guy.”

The older man nods and pushes the door open. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting


	11. Chapter 11

Some days are just a wasted effort.

Bellamy goes through this one like he's in a fog, unable to concentrate on anything for more than two seconds before his mind wanders back to the failed attempt at escaping, the new knowledge that some aliens are playing around in Echo's worst memories. He gets struck continuously with the uncertainty. Does he even know which one is the worst? Has she ever told him? Is he better off not knowing? He tries to imagine what it is from the thousand little details she has revealed from her childhood.

Is it some grave wound or when they took her from her aunt’s cottage as a kid? Maybe some trial, some job where she had grown attached to her mark? Is it her banishment? Seeing the world destroyed by a wave of fire? When he tried to kill her?

Bellamy feels bile rising to the back of his throat.

Gods, is she seeing him looming over her, choking her over and over and over?

Could it be the first few months on the Ring when she kept forgetting where she was, kept having flashbacks of the mountain because the tech looked so similar?

Is it the time she tried to kill herself only altered so that no one comes because nobody cares? Can the graa’s tech do that? Can they change memories? And if they can, what will stop them from twisting every sweet moment she has ever had and turning it into a nightmare?

No.

Alice said they take your worst memories and play it over and over.

Bellamy knows precisely what his worst memory is – his mom's terrified eyes, mouth agape as she is ejected from the Ark, sucked out into the cold vacuum of space; Octavia's screams as two peacekeepers tear her from his arms, wrenching her frail body back, dragging her away.

Has he told Echo of that day? Has she shared her worst day with him?

“You look like you need to hit something.” Bellamy blinks up at Raven, standing with her hands in his pockets. “I think we can clear a space in our room for some light sparring.”

Bellamy feels his lips twist. “I am trying to quit my barbaric tendencies.”

“Nothing wrong with indulging yourself every once in a while.”

Bellamy snorts. He stands, feeling heavy and wrong-footed, his mind wandering back to Echo, to the graa, to the sort of tech they must have to dig around in people’s minds. To the fact that every single member of his Kru has enough bad memories to fill the Ring several times over and what will he do if they don’t release Echo? Could he risk his people’s lives to try and get her back? She would never forgive him if anything happened to any of them for her sake. And what if the graa capture them?

Will they all go through the reeducation program, their worst memories played on a loop until they can't take it anymore?

Is he truly putting the rest of the humans in danger or is that another of Clarke’s half-truths and lies?

Something between his lungs twists at that thought.

 _Clarke’s lies_.

It is easy thinking that Clarke just abandoned Echo, decided she was a necessary sacrifice like Cooper him. Gods know she made that decision many times throughout their shared reign on the ground. But Clarke has never been cruel, has she? If she knew what they were doing to Echo, would she still have decided it was an acceptable loss?

She was always good, always kind – a soft hand pulling him up, a shoulder to support him, the careful stitches knitting his flesh back together, _you are forgiven_ – wasn’t she?

 _Trying to understand the whims of spirits is a lost battle, Bell_. That’s what Echo would say, and he would smile and let her believe what she needs – _we all need our gods and beliefs to protect us_. But Clarke isn’t a mystical creature. She isn’t a god, or a spirit or an all-powerful entity of death. She doesn’t command death, she just happens to been surrounded by it. Just like Raven doesn’t have any power over fire. Just like Murphy isn’t immortal. They are all only human, and Clarke is as human as the rest of them.

Clarke was good. Clarke has to be good.

 _She did chain you up_ , whispers a voice that sounds disturbingly like Raven _._

 _Yes_ , he argues back, _but she did that because she thought it was important. It would keep me safe._

_She left you to die._

But that was because I put Madi in danger. She had to protect Madi.

 _Is Madi’s life worth more than yours?_ Grumbles Raven in the back of his mind.

His first thought: ‘ _Yes_.’

‘ _No.’_ That is the small selfish little voice he tries hard to ignore.

The truth is, he doesn't know if Clarke is good or bad anymore. He knew a girl once. A golden girl with blue eyes and a smile that made him want to be better. She was fierce and powerful and kind. She was levelheaded, smart and everything he wanted to be. She was the sun, and he wanted to bask in her warmth.

Then he turned his back, and she was gone, like a mirage, and he still wanted to be better.

Now there’s someone who wears the same face and the same eyes and the same determination. Someone he doesn’t know. Someone he desperately needs to be that girl.

“I don’t think sparring is a good idea with your head in the clouds like that,” says Emori.

Somehow he’s back in their shared rooms. He needs to get a grip.

“I am fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s all accumulated tension,” decrees Murphy, crossing his arms over his chest. “He needs to channel it into something.”

“Do you want to spar?” Emori arches an eyebrow in her ex’s direction.

“Hell no.”

Emori’s flat stare would make a lesser man wilt. Murphy, though, smirks like it’s a challenge, which Bellamy supposes it is. He wants Bellamy and Emori to spar for some reason. Bellamy isn’t sure it is a good idea.

He doesn't feel like himself, his mind continually wandering, turning and turning around what little he knows of this world, the endless possibilities and the even more significant ways everything can just break, and he can lose everyone he loves.

“Ready, Bell?”

He isn’t. But his body knows what to do, even if his mind isn’t paying as much attention as it should. If he were fighting Echo, she would laugh at him. She would have the upper hand all the time, and he would spend most of the session flat on his back, trying to decipher how he got there- ( _Gods how I miss her._ )

But Emori is not Echo. She’s good, but not much better than Bellamy. Her technique fluid and agile while he remains strong and firm. She manages to land a few kicks, but, for the most part, Bellamy’s body answers without much input from his brain.

Block, block, kick, sidestep, back, forward and block. Sweep, grab, kick, and punch. It’s all muscle memory. Like assembling a rifle. Like tucking Octavia into bed.

His heart isn’t into it, but slowly, his body unwinds. As sweat starts to bead on his forehead and tiredness gnaws at his muscles, he can find himself relaxing, slipping into the familiar routine. He can nearly hear Echo shouting instructions _widen that stance, Emori, You call that a kick? Come on Bellamy, she was right there!_

He can nearly feel the vibrations of the Ring under his feet; hear Raven and Murphy’s smugness as they win another bet against Monty. The farmer groaning: _Come on, how could you possibly know!_ Harper's knitting needles clicking somewhere near earth monitoring.

Emori throws him over her shoulder, but Bellamy’s ready and rolls to the right, hooking his leg behind her left knee and toppling her. Emori falls on her shoulder with a grunt, and they grapple for the upper hand.

Emori digs her heel right under his sternum with all her might and, twisting like a snake, she manages to grab his arm and wrenches his wrist.

He hisses.

“You yield?”

He fights against her grip, but there is nowhere to go. “Do you yield?”

“Yes, yes. Let go already.”

Emori smirks.

“Shouldn’t you have left him win?” asks Raven. “To not bruise his delicate ego?”

Emori shakes her long mane of dark hair, the beads9 woven into it clinking lightly. “I have enough with looking after the delicate ego of one man-child.”

Murphy makes a token effort to look affronted, but the blush spreading over his cheeks and the glee in his eyes fool nobody.

“Do you want a rematch?” he asks, feeling more revitalized. His mind is still buzzing, but at least now he can concentrate on the slight burn of his muscles.

“Nah, Shaw should get a chance to beat you while he can.”

The pilot arches an eyebrow. “I have never sparred. I’ve only ever done boxing.

"You should try sparring. The last thing any of you need is more damage to your heads," says Raven.

Shaw stand. “So much love, I am overwhelmed. I’ll give it a try, but I must warn you I am not good.”

Bellamy feels himself returning the man’s smile. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Bellamy is holding Shaw on a chokehold when Clarke’s voice snaps his attention to the door.

He lets go of Shaw, and the young man jumps to his feet like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Someone growls deep in their throat. Emori tenses like a bowstring. Octavia, who was huddled in her bunk narrows her eyes at the blonde hastily closing the door at her back. “Have you learned nothing?” hisses Clarke marching into the room.

Bellamy notices how his clan closes in around him, watching the intruder with various degrees of hostility. Even Octavia is standing up, though she doesn’t come closer. Her knuckles are still red from the beating she gave Murphy.

“This is Spacekru business," snaps Raven and Clarke's eyes flit to Octavia and back. She opens her mouth to answer but must decide against it, because she closes it and shakes her head.

"I need to talk to Bellamy," she says, and it's such a clear dismissal, even he feels the urge to march out of the room.

“He doesn’t have anything to say to you,” hisses the mechanic taking a step to the left and effectively positioning herself between Clarke and Bellamy. He is tempted to let them sort this among themselves. To stand back and see what they’ll do. But he really doesn’t need anyone to get a beating and, between Raven and Clarke, he isn’t sure Raven would have the upper hand. He isn’t sure he wants to see Clarke hurt.

Something in his chest twitches at the mental image.

“He can make that decision for himself;” Bellamy says, voice hard even if the hand he puts on Raven’s shoulder is not.

The mechanic throws him a sidelong glare. “What could you possibly-?”

“That’s enough.”

He walks past Raven and marches towards the door. A second later, he feels Clarke following.

The dorm is a long structure that opens to the main square, but behind it, facing the lush woods are a few benches for more private tête-à-têtes.

The first thing Echo and he noticed before they were captured was that, in the evening light, the forest looks like it’s on fire. Blue and pink leaves sparkling with golden highlights. Echo was mesmerized, staring at the changing colors, mouth slack in wonder. The light played on her skin, making her look like a goddess.

He pushes the memories of Echo on the new planet back into the box in his mind where they don’t hurt as much – was that the last time he would ever see her? –, and sits on one of the metal benches.

Clarke paces in front of him, twisting her hands.

“I didn’t know,” she says finally, her bottom lip quivering.

 _It’s an act to manipulate you, Bellamy_ , whispers Raven's pragmatic voice in the back of his mind. Once upon a time, that voice was Clarke's. The larger part of his brain believes her, will always believe her.

His lack of an answer brings tears to her eyes. “I didn’t know what they were doing. I thought-“ she swallows. If it’s a lie, she is the best-goddamned liar there is. “Prim’Sev assured me they weren’t going to harm her and-“ her hands shake when she falls to her knees in front of him. Her hand is so small when it grasps his, pale, covered in fine white and pink scars from a hundred thousand little cuts. She didn’t have that many scars back _then_ , did she? He remembers her skin pristine and soft, her hands and fingernails perfectly cared for, not a single patch of hard skin blemishing them. Hands of a goddess, just one small detail elevating her from the rest of mortals.

He watches her hand, the short dirty nails, the chewed inside of her thumb is raw and bloody. There is a thin long pink scar running along the side of her ring finger.

“I should have insisted. I know that. I don’t know why-“

She turns her head to the side. The second sun catches her hair. Spun gold, skin like freshly fallen snow. It is not hard to remember all the admiration he felt back then when he thought she was so much better.

"Bellamy, I never wanted to hurt you." Her hand spasms over his, and he has to fight a shudder remembering other hurts, other excuses. "I- The graa is a matriarchal society. They believe males are easily dominated and hold little power." Her knuckles are white from how tightly she's grasping his knee, eyes frantic. She is starting to get desperate. It's a look he had seen only twice before: when Emerson closed the airlock (her eyes wide and hands shaking and _PLEASE!_ ) and when she pointed a gun at him (she looked so young and scared and _What I have to. Like always_ ). “They think males are not very smart, and easily manipulated. That’s why they didn’t fight much to keep you.”

He knows she’s desperate to get a reaction from him, but he doesn’t have anything to say, so he stays silent.

He isn’t even angry, just tired and miserable.

Clarke cleans her nose with the back of her right hand the left one still clutching his. “I can’t do this without you, Bellamy. I need you.”

 _Together_ , she doesn't say, but it is implied.

Together is a lie. They weren’t ever really a team. _The good knight by his queen’s side_. She had let the lie live, long enough for him to slide into his rightful place at her feet, always a step behind, always a rung beneath her. Back then it had felt like it was where he belonged: a shadow, basking in the sun’s glory.

Just the memory of it hurts. Alone the thought of going back to that hurts so much, he has to tear his mind off it.

“You lied to me,” his voice comes out flat and even. Echo would be proud, she always says he wears his heart in his sleeve.

Clarke works her mouth, takes a deep breath as she considers what truth is better suited for this situation. “I am sorry. I knew you would never agree to leave without- without her if I didn’t give you a good reason.”

“Her name is Echo." Clarke flinches and looks away. A tear rolls down her cheek and lands on his pant leg. "How can I believe anything you say, Clarke when you were willing to manipulate me like that?"

“I needed you safe!” she stares at him, wide-eyed and tear-faced. “Don’t you understand? I lo-“

"No." Her mouth snaps shut, and her wounded expression twists something between his lungs. "No, you don't get to hurt me like that."

Bellamy has to tear his eyes off her. He is too tired to have this conversation, his feelings too raw. Everything is collapsing around him, and he feels like he did those first few months on the Ring when everything ached, and he felt so incredibly lost and alone.

The first sun has set and the second one is making it’s way towards the tree line, tinting the soft clouds in soft pinks. A four-winged bird circles overhead.

He has had this conversation with her already: once upon a time when he was but a shell of himself, he sat alone in Earth Monitoring, staring down at the burning planet and told her. Once upon a time, when her death felt like someone had taken his lungs away, he took all the strings attaching him to Earth and, one by one, bid him goodbye. Asked forgiveness. And confessed everything he hadn't had the chance to say.

Bellamy isn’t sure he can’t do it all over again, not when his mind is buzzing with panic and the pain of losing someone he loves all over again is back.

But some things need closure, and he needs to do this, needs to put that past behind himself and, hopefully, build something better.

The four-winged bird’s feathers sparkle in the sun.

“I loved a girl, once.” The memory of that night at Earth Monitoring, of the loneliness and pain and pleas, ( _please, come back, I need you!)_ still twist his heart. "Golden and smart and powerful. Athena sprung fully formed from Zeus' mind, created to be admired and feared and loved. She shone like the sun, and I was lucky enough if I could stand in that light. Loving her- Loving her hurt so much, and still for a smile or a kind word I would've cut my own heart out. It destroyed me when she died." He sighs, shying away from those awful first months in the coldness of space. Overhead the bird beats its wings and makes a sharp turn, diving towards the trees. "It's weird how your mind forgets about the bad parts when people leave. If anyone were to ask me about my mother, I would say that she was the most beautiful and caring person in the world, although I know it's a lie. She was selfish and a coward and a criminal who probably deserved being floated. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, or something like that, and it's the same with this girl. Her shadow was all I could ever aspire to, and it was enough, because, looking back at it, I can put the pain and the betrayal" ( _please come inside_ ) "behind me and concentrate in all that was good. But that girl is dead." Tears are running down Clarke's pink cheeks. He doesn't feel the urge to wipe them away anymore. "In her stead, there is a woman I don't know. The shadow of the best friend I ever had before getting to the ground. A woman who has betrayed me has lied to me and has hurt my family worse than any other enemy ever had."

He sees her turn her head out of the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. _You_ are the only thing that kept me sane after Praimfaya. I was scared for Madi and-“

“I know why you did it. You always do what you think is right. But what is right for you not always is what’s best for my people.”

Clarke curls in on herself. “So, that’s it? You all hate me now, is that what you are saying? You all moved on and left me alone again and-“ her voice hitches.

Bellamy watches her. She doesn’t seem a goddess anymore, just a broken, lonely woman.

“You don’t need to stay alone. You can always join us.”

She huffs a mirthless laugh. “Raven doesn’t want anything to do with me. And Murphy won’t even acknowledge my presence.”

“Murphy will need time. I am not sure he has forgiven you for threatening to put the one person he loves in a microwave. And Raven will come around eventually. You did cause her to be tortured and start the End of the World Part Three. They- We don’t know you yet. But We can try and make something good out of all of this. You don’t need to be alone.”

Her eyes gleam when she looks up at him. There is so much hope there, he can’t help to smile. It’s going to be ok. There has been so much loss in his life, maybe it’s time to get someone new.

***

Bellamy watches the children play in a field.

There are a lot of children: tall, energetic, well-fed, round-cheeked boys and girls with jump ropes, bats and soccer balls. Their laughter rings loud in the air, not loud enough to completely drown the constant rumbling in the background, though.

He never thought he would ever see so many healthy, happy kids. It is a sight that brings him hope: maybe, one day, one of these little chubby ones will be his? It is no secret he has always wanted to have children. On the Ark, it was a fruitless, senseless dream. When he got to the ground, it became a wish, something to fantasize about. And, once he met Echo, a possibility.

“Is this seat taken?”

Bellamy looks up to Jordan. The young man’s smile looks so much like Harper’s, it hurts. “No.” He waves his hand in what hopes is an inviting gesture. He hasn’t been as concerned with Jordan Jasper Green as he should have. Shame creeps into his cheeks as the young man – only three years older than him – takes a seat beside him. “How do you like the ground so far?”

He tries not to wince at how awkward the question sounds in his own ears. How do you engage a man you should have seen grow? A man that is part of your family, but from whom you know virtually nothing?

Jordan hums. "It's complicated," he chuckles self-deprecatingly, and it is something _so Monty_. "On the one hand, it's amazing: all the new stuff, all the people. As a kid, I would've killed for a field like this one to play in."

“You and me both.”

“But it is terrifying. And everything is so complicated, you know? It feels like I am trying to program something without knowing what it is.”

“Yeah, flying in blind.”

“You feel so, too?”

“This society is so different from everything I’ve ever known, I feel like it can’t be real.”

“I know. But the food is good.”

“Oh, god, yes! Alone the thought of algae has my stomach go queasy.”

“Dad would be so disappointed, but I don’t want to eat algae ever again.”

“I am pretty sure he missed cooked deer as well. But he put in a valiant effort. You know. Green is good.”

"Green is good," says Jordan at the same time and they both laugh and just like that the tension between them snaps, and they start to talk. Jordan tells him about the farm, the preparation for the up-coming Walking Forest. He tells him about the movie shoot he saw and the friends he has made here on the ground. He keeps referencing his childhood, bits, and pieces about his parents: Mom used to say… Dad had this…That was his favorite… When I was a kid… Jordan paints a picture of who he is and all that has brought him here. Not for the first time since meeting him, Bellamy wishes he could have been there to see it. A small, selfish part of him is angry at Monty and Harper for depriving him, for taking away the choice of spending his life with them.

“Bellamy!” Emori’s voice is like a knife in the lazy afternoon air. She is running towards them, long hair wiping around her under her headscarf, a huge smile splitting her face, making her eyes sparkle. “She’s here! Echo’s back!”

Relief crashes over him like a wave. Before he has time to think, he’s on his feet tearing through the field towards the Admission Area, heart crashing hard in his chest, repeating the same words over and over: Echo is back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting :D


	12. Chapter 12

“So, this is you. We will arrange for some clothes and, in a few days, we will give you a job assignment.”

When Bellamy crashes through the door to the dorm, Echo’s standing awkwardly near the bed they’ve saved for her, and the fact that Emori, Murphy, Raven and even Shaw are huddled at the back of the room should have been the first indication that something is terribly wrong.

But, at that moment, Bellamy only has eyes for Echo: dressed in a shapeless cream-colored dress, hair pulled into a braided ponytail, unharmed and _here_. He charges straight ahead, throwing himself at her, not caring that her first instinct will be to throw him over her shoulder.

She doesn’t throw him over her shoulder, she doesn’t hug him back or do much of anything other than standing completely still, which should have been the second indication that something is terribly wrong.

But he feels like he’s been left up for air after spending much too long underwater. He breathes her in, relishing in the feeling of her – strong, and safe, and _here_ -, her warm skin and lean body and that something that is uniquely _her._

It takes him a few seconds to notice that her arms are slack at her sides, the tension in her body. Bellamy steps back to look at her, his hands rubbing circles on her shoulders, cupping the firm curve of her jaw. “Are you ok? Did they hurt you?”

Echo’s eyes flit across his face, her expression carefully neutral, a polite smile on her face, no trace of recognition in her eyes.

That should have been the third indication that something was terribly wrong.

“Bellamy has been worried sick about you,” explains Alice, her usually cheery voice a few octaves sadder.

Echo’s polite smile turns uneasy. “Echo?”

She licks her full lips and takes a careful step out of his grasp. “I am afraid you mistake me with someone else.”

“Dear, don’t you recognize him?”

Echo searches his face. Bellamy’s heart drums against his ribs once. Twice. “No.”

The word feels like a punch to the gut, a claw closing around his throat and dragging him under. “Echo, please, you must-“

“That is not my name.”

The claw squeezes harder.

Alice shifts on her feet. “I will leave you to get acquainted,” and flees before he has time to process her words.

Silence settles heavily in the dorm.

Echo’s eyes flit around the room “Am I dead?”

“What? No!” says Raven taking a step forward. “No.”

“Oh. I thought- Who were the horned spirits?”

“They’re called graa. They are-“ Raven looks from Echo to Bellamy. “They are aliens?”

“What are aliens?”

“They inhabit another planet.”

The woman’s frown deepens. “What are they doing here?”

“ _We_ are on _their_ planet.”

“This isn’t Trikru territory?”

“No.” Bellamy swallows around the claw choking him. “No, Trikru and Azgeda and- the whole world burned. We fled. This is a camp for refugees from Earth. We are Spacekru.” He studies her face, maybe the name will jog her memory, will push her to remember them.

“Where is Azgeda?”

“Azgeda doesn't exist anymore," he says slowly. Echo's knees buckle under her, and she sits down on her assigned cot.

“That- that can’t be. Azgeda- Azgeda has existed for a thousand years.”

Murphy and Raven exchange a look, and Bellamy feels something in his chest twisting. From what they gathered from Echo and Emori during their stay on the Ring grounder culture had a very loose account of Pre-Praimfaya history. It shouldn’t have been possible to create such myths and distort actual facts in such a short period of time, but, somehow, they managed to scramble all the dates and most of the actual facts Arkers learned at school. It took them a ridiculously long time to convince both Echo that the United States hadn’t been around for a thousand years before Praimfaya, so how could Azgeda be that old.

And now here they are again.

“I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“It can’t be _gone_. There must be survivors, someone like-like me. The-the Royal Family. If I have survived so must they.”

He kneels down to be at eye-level with her, takes the hand lying uselessly on her lap, squeezes it, but she doesn't reciprocate. "Roan died before the world ended. He fought in a conclave to try and save his people."

“Prince Roan is dead?” Tears like diamonds cling to her eyelashes. “A-and Haiplana Nia?”

“Killed, by the Commander for defying her.”

She stares forward, through Bellamy at something he can’t see, her mouth slack and eyes wide and scared. He knows what she’s going through. She went through it at the same time as the rest of them did back on the Ring. She already grappled with the knowledge that she was clan-less, that the people she loved most in the world were dead. She hurt and broke and pieced herself back up.

Bellamy hates the graa with his whole heart for forcing her to go through this again. Nobody should have to lose their whole world twice.

“Hey, listen to me. You aren’t alone. Azgeda might be gone, but you are part of Spacekru. You are a part of us. You have been a part of us for- for an eternity already. And we are here for you.”

Her chin quivers, she shakes her head no. “I am Azgeda. I was born Azgeda, and I serve my King and my Queen. I-I-I am nothing if I am not Azgeda.”

Her shoulders shake in heartbreaking sobs, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She flinches slightly when he sits beside her, but doesn’t pull away when his arms come around her, his hand stroking big soothing circles on her back.

Bellamy isn’t sure how long it’s been when Echo pulls away and rubs the moisture from her cheeks, only that his shirt is damp with her tears and his arms feel empty without her in them. Echo looks sheepishly around. At some point the rest of Spacekru has come close, settling on his bunk across the narrow corridor and on the floor. Even Jordan is there, cocking his head curiously at the spy.

“Sorry for such an unbecoming display,” she mumbles into the tissue Raven gives her.

“It’s alright,” says Emori lying her deformed hand on her shoulders. Echo frowns at it for a second before shaking her head. “My name is Emori.”

Echo swallows. “I am Little Girl.”

Bellamy shudders, head to toe, his heart breaking. _What have they done to you?_

“That is not a name,” laughs Shaw and Echo blushes to the root of her hair, dropping her eyes to stare at her lap.

“It’s not. But that’s what people call me. I- I haven’t earned a name yet.”

Shaw frowns but Raven shakes her head minutely, and he doesn't say anything else.

“I am Murphy,” his voice crackles with barely contained wrath. “That’s Bellamy, our fearless leader. She’s Raven, the smartest of the group and Bellamy’s second. Shaw, he is expendable. And Jordan, he is not. Ems and I are-’”

“Foxes,” nods Echo like it all makes perfect sense, and Bellamy's heart does a somersault. "Where are the others?"

“We are all that’s left of Spacekru,” says Bellamy softly.

She looks around the room, searching for something, and her eyes land on Octavia, who stands stock still at the door to the dorm. Her shift is natural and imperceptible for a casual onlooker, but Bellamy hasn’t stopped studying her, and he notices how her back is a little straighter, her attention more focused, her face closed off.

Octavia’s sharp eyes travel around the room, a sneer hiding the jealousy in her eyes. “I see you got your spy back.”

“That’s Blodreina,” spits Murphy, eyes narrowed and body tense as a bowstring. “She’s Wonkru.”

“Murphy-“ warns Bellamy, he’s too tired to put much heat in his voice and O notices automatically.

“Don’t bother, Bell. I _am_ Wonkru, and your spy knows it. Don't you."

“Her name is-“

"Little Girl," says Echo standing up, her shoulders thrown back, feet at shoulder with, arms crossed behind her back in a posture she used all too often over the first few years on the Ring.

Octavia frowns in confusion, her eyes flitting around the room. “Right, whatever.” She throws herself on her cot and plucks her tablet from the bedside table.

“Are you hungry?” asks Emori peering cautiously at Echo. “We can show you to the mess hall.”

“That would be very kind, thank you, thank you.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again.   
> I finally managed to finish this chapter. Let's hope that the new season brings back the inspiration to finish this thing

Octavia finds Bellamy slumped on the bench behind their dorm looking miserable.

A twisted part of her is glad that he's suffering, that he feels as alone and as lost as she did all those years ago. Another, louder part of her, shudders at the memory of that loss and wants to pull him into a hug. Her hugs have never been as good as his, they never manage to take the pain, fear, and despair away like his do.

“Are you ok?”

Bellamy sniffs, brushes the back of his sleeve over his face. When he looks up his sorrow has been hastily pushed way, like it never existed. “Yeah, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She sits beside him. The knot in her stomach loosens when he doesn’t pull away. “I know it doesn’t mean anything anymore. But I am glad she’s ok.”

“She is not ok.” Octavia knows the anger in his voice. It is familiar terrain, much more so than vulnerability or sadness. She knows how Bellamy’s anger works.

“She is alive. And she isn’t alone.”

Bellamy rubs his face, pulls on his hair. “What they’ve taken from her is much worse.”

“But you get to make her fall in love with you all over again.”

He doesn’t move; his eyes fixed on the forest. The anger has ebbed away leaving his back bent and his skin pale. “I don’t want her to fall in love with me all over again. I don’t want her to look at our family like we are strangers. And I don’t want her mind to be lost between now and a time when she was nothing.”

Octavia frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Forget it.”

"Bellamy? Talk to me. I want to help." The skepticism in his eyes hurts like a punch. "You'd rather it had been me, don't you?"

“No.” he sighs. “No, I think it would be worse if it were you.”

They sit in silence for a while. Octavia remembers a time when they were able to sit like this for hours. Now the quietness is stifling. He has forgotten how to coexist, and it's not fair.

After a while, Bellamy stands, and Octavia knows she should say something along the lines of ‘ _it’ll get better_ ,’ or ‘ _I know she’ll remember you eventually_.’ But the only thing that comes out of her mouth is: “At least nobody put a bullet in her brain,” which is not what she wanted to say.

Bellamy's shoulders curl up, and he walks away, leaving her alone on her bench.

Octavia watches the clouds sailing calmly overhead. Their weightlessness is infuriating. Fire burns in her veins, it itches under her skin, her hands shake as a hundred fire ants crawl over her knuckles.

She takes a deep breath. Then another and another one after that. Counts to ten, and when that doesn’t help, she counts to one hundred. But the anger is still there, growling and snapping its teeth.

She wants blood running over her knuckles, down her throat.

***

When Octavia was little, Bellamy used to memorize books in the library to retell her on story time. She remembers her favorites: those she asked to hear over and over until she knew them by heart. During her year in the skybox and then on the long nights in the bunker, she curled up in her empty bed and conjured her brother up, his voice painting incredible tales of warriors and princesses and rebels and monsters inside the closet and adventurers across the universe.

Standing at the edge of the field, Octavia can’t help but marvel as one of Bellamy’s stories comes to life in the form of three dozens trees making their way slowly out of the woods, their long roots slithering over the ground like wriggling snakes, their huge branches creaking and clacking as they brush against each other. And there! On the trees! Humanoid creatures ride the walking forest!

“Yeah, they come every second spring,” says Zen beside her. The older man twists his mouth into the first expression of distaste she has seen on the inhabitants of the reservoir. “Be careful around them. They’re thieves.”

“Who are they?”

“Tree parasites, they go from town to town and scam good people with tricks and stolen goods.”

“Why do you let them come?”

"We can't stop the trees, and believe me, we tried," Zen chuckles. "They'll set up camp now, and, tonight, they'll throw a party. Over the week there will be a market, and then, when the trees have rested enough, and taken what they want from our soil, they’ll continue on until next year,” he shrugs. “Let’s go, we’ll check it out tonight.”

Octavia sees Bellamy's spy frowning at the walking forest and hurries to follow Zen back into the massive buildings of the reservoir.

She tries to concentrate on her mundane job, but that is a difficult enough task on an average day, now that everyone is excited about the wandering forest's arrival, it's even harder. Mopping up floors and cleaning dust isn't precisely engaging, and she finds herself more interested in eavesdropping than looking where she is going. The fact that wherever she goes, the spy seems to be doesn't help.

Octavia pushes her cart down a wide corridor, there’s a group of women chatting excitedly about the wandering forest. “You’ve got to get yourself a tree dweller,” says one of them with a long yellow braid. “They are very skilled with their hands.”

One of her friends giggles. “Are they dangerous?”

The wheels on Octavia’s cart screech to a halt. There she is again, that bloody spy, lurking in the shadows. Playing nice with the locals to get their intel, no doubt.

"Well," says a short, dark-haired woman in a skirt. "They are not that trustworthy. But it's not like you have to marry them, or bring them into your home."

Yellow braid laughs. “Do not, under any circumstances, bring one of them into your house. They’ll rob you blind.”

“Yes, you let them take you into their tents. They’re pretty cool, hanging from the trees.”

“But are they dangerous?”

Dark hair frowns her plump lips. “What do you mean?”

“Are they likely to kill our people if they drop their guard.”

“Kill? Of course not! Violence is strictly forbidden.” Yellow braid huffs a laugh. “Where would you get an idea like that!”

“Trikru used to pick our children off when they wandered too far from the border.”

“Boo-ho,” snaps Octavia, “don’t you get tired of lying, _spy_?”

Echo straightens, her eyes narrowed at the red queen. Her stance changes ever so slightly: feet at shoulder width, her body turned slightly sideways to protect her weaker side. She's gearing up for a fight. Something in Octavia's belly twists and coils, with the promise of violence.

The two women are inconsequential, Echo is the one who will deliver violence, who will give her blood.

“It’s not a lie. Trikru would hide in the trees and shoot at us for sport.”

“That’s not true,” growls Octavia.

“I saw it with my own two eyes,” growls Echo slithering forward. “Geordie was five and didn’t listen. An arrow flew out of the trees right through his eye.”

“I thought you didn’t have any memory, _Little Girl_.”

“I might not remember my new clan,” the spy’s eyes burn.

Octavia feels bile in the back of her throat, blood rushes in her ears, pulling on her muscles until they’re ready to snap.

“But there are things you can never forget. Trikru’s treachery is one of them.”

Octavia throws herself at the spy. She is a good fighter- bested her once before – but she’s had a chance to practice with some of Azgeda’s best warriors.

Echo dodges, dances out of the way of a sweeping leg and raises her fist to punch Octavia in the face when she sees an opening.

But the blow never lands. Echo screams, dropping her guard altogether, staring down at her shaking hands in utter horror. Octavia's punch lands squarely on the side of her eye, bringing the spy's attention back to her.

“Come on, spy!”

Echo blinks, her eyes round with fear. She takes a step back, and then another before turning on her heel fleeing like the coward she is. The victory tastes like ash, and she still thirsts for blood.

With an angry growl, she picks her bucket up and continues mopping the floor until Zen and Shepa come to find her.

***

The field is alight with lanterns hanging from the trees, balanced on the lowest branches artisans offer their woven and carved goods. Luscious cloths and weird little trinkets, or baked goods that fill the air with rich flowery scents.

The tree dwellers are short and robust four-armed creatures dressed in earthy pants and decorated vests, around their middle they wear heavy belts with large wooden buckles, weighted down by tools and twine, pouches and knives. But the weirdest part of their aspect is not their four-fingered hands or the clawed feet or the pensile tail. It's the fact that they all wear heavy wooden masks over their faces, the backs of their heads covered by a long veil of thick, decorated cloth that sneaks down their backs and is also attached to their belt.

A young four-armed child skips towards them, their mask just a wooden oval with two long cuts where their soft brown eyes peek out. The kid carries a woven basket full of green and white blossoms. The flowers are the size of a fist, their leaves buttery. "Happy blossoms?" offers the child.

“What are those?” asks Octavia as Zen picks two flowers from the basket in exchange for a silver coin.

"You chew on them, and they make you feel good," her friend offers one to her, sticking the second in his mouth and chewing slowly.

“What about Shepa?”

“They don’t agree with him.”

“They give me one hell of a headache.”

Octavia puts the flower on her tongue. It tastes like the chicken broth Lincoln used to have in his canteen: thick and slightly spicy, the aftertaste of warm kisses and coarse hands on her back.

Octavia rolls the leaves in her mouth.

She can nearly smell the wood burning in the fireplace, the night air heavy with the smell of pine trees and wet dirt, a bird caws in the distance. Lincoln's breath fans warm on the back of her neck.

Octavia blinks.

The air shimmers with the gentle glow of blue-winged butterflies.

“Octavia?” calls a familiar voice, calling her attention back to the ground, to his brother smiling, kneeling on the metal floor. “Come on, you can do it.” His hands beckon her, his brown eyes the safest place in the universe. There are stars on his cheeks and pride in the curve of his lips.

Octavia’s heart swells, hurrying forward, but no matter how much she runs, Bellamy’s always out of reach. His eyes still kind and patient as he waits for her.

“Where are you going?”

The voice comes from behind her, but it’s not her mom’s. It’s a new voice she thinks she knows but can’t place. Curious, she turns.

Bellamy crouches on top of their mom’s workbench, around his feet buttons and needles and a rusty thimble.

Lily pads.

_Bellamy hates lily pads._

The thought flits through her mind. Unsettling but so quickly, she forgets about it in an instant. Feeling a broad smile pulling on the corners of her mouth, Octavia jumps from a rock to the dead stump of a tree, down a cliff into the cold, clear waters of the lake behind the Dropship.

She sinks into a world of muted colors and eerie sounds and opens her eyes to stare at the muddy darkness and the blind spears of light.

She feels weightless and eternal down here like time has stopped forever and she's suspended in a calm, void.

A shadow swims towards her, but Octavia isn’t afraid. She only feels calm and happiness.

The next thing she knows, a pair of strong arms has enveloped her into a tight embrace, slippery skin against hers, rippling muscle shifting at her back. The air is frigid when her head pierces the surface, bringing her back to the real world, but that doesn’t matter as long as Lincoln’s arms are around her.

Octavia presses herself tighter against him, the uneasy feeling that he’s about to disappear just a disjointed, inconsequential afterthought in the back of her mind.

She breathes him in.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” She hugs him tighter, squeezing her eyes close. “This is perfect. Just this. I don’t want anything else.”

A square hand shakes her shoulder. “Are you ok?”

“Just let me stay here.”

There are tears on her wet cheeks. She is so happy. Octavia hasn't been this happy in years, and the only thing she wants Is to stay here forever. To never again leave this instant.

“Come on, I think you should let go now.”

“No! Please! Let me stay here! Please!”

The person talking sighs. “How about this: you open your eyes and, if you want to continue staying here, you can. But you have to open your eyes first.”

Octavia squeezes her arms tighter around Lincoln's middle. Takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

She expects disappointment, but it never comes.

The queen blinks at the tree trunk she’s currently hugging, the bark coarse against her cheek.

Slowly, she lets go, sits back on the damp grass waiting for the anger to make her blood boil, but there is none. Only the sweet memory of utter happiness unmarred by regret, pain, anger or sorrow.

Behind her crouches one of the tree dwellers, his wooden mask has a short square muzzle that reminds her of the panther Bellamy brought back to camp that one time. At the bottom of its eye-sockets, two mirrors reflect the light of the lanterns, making them look ablaze.

"Sorry for bringing you down so quickly, but you were freaking the little guy out."

The trunk of the tree she was hugging is thick like a grown man and at least ten feet high. Octavia wouldn't qualify as "little." Then again, the trees around it tower over it twice or three times as tall, so what does she know?

“You alright? Happy Blossoms have a mean kick.”

“I am ok.”

“Want to share? I could trade a good story for some sweet bread.”

Octavia stares at the masked stranger. It’s impossible for her to know what he’s thinking. She’s barely aware that it should bother her, this lack of control. He is judging her, no doubt. That’s what everyone does.

“I don’t need your pity.”

"Good thing it isn't pity." He tilts his head in a way that makes the light in the mask's eyes twinkle, almost as if the cat-like face were winking.

Octavia swallows.

She still has the taste of the happy blossom on the back of her throat.

The stranger huffs, “I swear I won’t bite.”

With a chuckle, she pushes herself to her feet.

“Yeah, why not.”

Tipping the head forward, the mask seems to smile. “This way!”

Octavia climbed her first tree at age sixteen. Lincoln taught her, he showed her how to check if the branch could hold her weight, helped her to build up her upper-body strength and how to find purchase on the smoothest trees.

Even though he was a big man, he moved easily between the branches. Ease she was never able to imitate and that she always admired.

The stranger in the wooden mask would've made Lincoln look like a clumsy ox in a china shop by comparison. He doesn't climb so much as float, heedless of small, inconsequential things like gravity or physics. Every now and then he stops swinging from a vine or hanging upside down from a branch to make sure Octavia's still behind him.

Which she is. Slower and clumsy, sweat beading her brow and scratches covering her hands, the red queen follows.

Finally, they reach a house made of entwined vines and tied together branches. It’s an uneven living thing covered in leaves and small yellow flowers.

The stranger pats the lintel before ducking into the dwelling.

Intrigued, Octavia follows.

The inside is more spacious than she anticipated, covered in luxurious cloths and blooming flowers. Every nook and cranny is full of various trinkets – metal figurines, and woven baskets, macramé curtains and sparkly objects. He plucks a leaf from the wall and goes to the glass box hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. He drops it inside, and a second later, the box starts to shine, illuminated with the glow of a hundred fireflies.

The stranger plops down on the carpeted floor and tilts his head towards her. She can easily imagine him raising his eyebrows: ‘your move.’

Never one to stay behind, she sits across from him. That’s when it dawns on her: “You only have two arms.”

The stranger chuckles. “I hear that’s the normal amount among humans.”

“How are you human?” The silence is enough to make her feel stupid for the question. “I thought the only humans on the planed lived in the reservoir.”

"You, my dear, have been greatly misinformed." He opens a wicker box and offers her a small roll of bread. "You should eat something sweet, or you'll wake up tomorrow with the hangover of your life."

“I don’t want to talk about what I saw.” Now that the effect of the flower is wearing off, she’s starting to remember the pain and loneliness that always comes when she thinks of Lincoln.

“Take one anyway. I’ll trade it for a story of the stars.”

Octavia frowns. “The stars?”

“You’re a spacey. The Stranded talk a lot, especially to the psychics.”

“I find it difficult to believe. Zen and Shepa say you’re untrustworthy scammers.”

The stranger shrugs. "And still they're here, playing drinking, trading and harassing our women. Or those they think are women." He chuckles. "Anyway, they have been busy talking about the strange people that have traveled from the mother planet. Some think you bring an army to destroy their graa oppressors. Others think you'll bring the Great Pilot and take them home."

"We had to flee earth because a mad man destroyed it."

“That seems legit.”

Octavia pinches a piece of the offered pastry, chews slowly. It’s very sweet, too sweet for her taste. Nylah would love this.

Except Nylah’s still in cryo. Everyone is. Every friend, every allay. She’s alone. A queen without a people.

Octavia pushes those thoughts away. “Ok. I’ll tell you a story about the stars. In space, orbiting a dying planet, there lives a clan of fierce warriors. Survivors at heart. Their leader was the mightiest of them all. He alone had descended into the depths of Tartarus, fought its monsters and come back unscathed. He had killed their enemies and survived every blow. He was smart and quiet, a Knife in the Dark, poised and ready to strike. He reigned supreme in the castle in the sky.”

The words come easily. Octavia remembers sitting by Ethan's bed, telling him this story in a hushed voice. She remembers his little mouth open in wonder, and the hope in his eyes.

“Still, even though he had protected his people and earned his respite among the stars, he wandered the halls of his fortress in sorrow. He had the feeling the people he had left behind were in need. He missed the wide fields and lush forests. Little by little he remembered something he had forgotten for deep, deep inside the hearth he had left the most important person of his life behind. When he remembered, even though he was tired of fighting, even though he had earned the right to rest, the sadness gripped him. So he called upon his clan. ‘My Kru', he said' For five years we rested our weary bones. We have eaten and drunk and slept, restoring our strength. We watched the earth regrow, trees springing from contaminated soil, rivers watering the cracked earth. It Is time to go down once more.’”

The stranger doesn’t move.

"And so their mechanic prepped the spaceship, their farmer loaded the food, the warriors took up bow and sword and rifle. They strapped themselves into the ship to come to free their people from the bowels of the earth once more."

 _If you are really, really quiet_ , she used to whisper into Ethan’s ear, _you can hear the thrusters as the dig to get us out of here_.

For five and a half years Octavia told her charge this story. And for five and a half years she clung to Bellamy’s memory, convinced her brother would never abandon her. He would come. He had to.

 _I will never let anything bad happen to you. I promise_.

Bellamy never broke his promises.

Except Bellamy didn't come and with each passing day in that dark place, Octavia grew a little older and his childish promises a little less real, until she resented his memory as much as Ethan whenever he asked to hear the story.

After that, Octavia forced herself never to think of her brother, because when she did, she could see him on the ring, happy and unburdened, having forgotten her under the floor. Sometimes, when he entered her mind, he was dead, floating frozen and lost in the vast blackness of space. And Octavia wasn't sure which scenario she preferred.

“That’s a pretty cool story,” says the stranger, breaking her out of her musings. “Is he one of the spacies that have landed here, or is this an old fairytale?”

Octavia takes another pinch off the pastry. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Tell me, how come you’re not stuck on a reservoir like the rest of us.”

"Well, I was born into a stranded family. We watched the trees pass by every second spring. One day I had enough of living rooted in the same place and joined them."

“That easy?”

"No, actually, it's very hard. Getting used to the masks is hard, their culture is very refined and completely different from everything I ever knew. And then there is the fact that humans aren't designed to live on top of moving trees. Drumwimp – that's what the ‘tree dwellers' are called, by the way – have four arms for a reason. But I have the talent to keep the saplings happy, and one learns to make do with what they have. I had to adapt, and I did."

“What’s with the mask?”

"It's obscene for Drumwimp to go outside with their face uncovered. We only take the mask off in our dwelling, and only in front of partners."

“Yeah, but why?”

He shrugs. “Why do you wear shirts and pants? It’s just how things are.”

Octavia smiles. She feels a kinship with this man. They both had to abandon their home and become something they hadn't been original. "Why did you leave?"

He shrugs, scratches the side of his throat. "No particular reason. We were farmers, it was boring and predictable. I wanted to see the world, meet new people, find out what riding a tree was like, listen to the singing mountains.” His voice is full of passion, enough to make up for the lack of facial expression. “Now you tell me. Why did you abandon your family?”

Octavia rolls what’s left of the roll in her hands.

"I was born a prisoner. My mom broke the law, and when people found out, she was killed, and I sent to jail." She wets her lips. She has explained this story twice already: once to Lincoln and later, inside the bunker, to Nylah. It should get easier. "I was never part of their society. Never belonged. Until I found-" Octavia clears her throat. "Until I found Trikru. They took me in, taught me how to be strong, how to survive and fight."

“I don’t know anything about fighting. It was frowned upon in the place where I was born. And I never needed to learn on the tree.”

"On Earth, it was kill or be killed."

“Sounds miserable.”

"During a fight, everything is heightened, you feel everything like a hot thrill, power like you can't imagine. Nothing can compare."

The stranger hums.

Mirrored in the mask’s eyes, staring back at her, lies her lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke go on a day trip to a graa village.

Clarke watches a psychic read the fortune of a man in his forties.

They are seated on a small mountain of brightly colored pillows under the canopy of a large tree covered in pink flowers. The psychic, wearing a weird round mask with large mirrored eyes and a small beak, has two arms raised over her head and with the other two clutches the man's hands.

A small crowd has gathered around the tree, kept at bay by two men in similar long-snouted, pointy-eared masks.

Wanheda shakes her head at the display. Understanding what the strange fortune-seer is saying is hard with the mask, but the man hangs on every word, eyes round and hopeful.

“Poor Drew,” beside her, Alice shakes her head. “Every year he asks for his fortune.”

"Does it come, true?"

Alice arches an elegant eyebrow in the blonde's direction, a smile playing around her purple lips. "Walk with me, dear. Let's talk."

The woman grabs Clarke's hand hooking it on the crook of her arm and pulling her towards a display of wicker baskets. The vendor also wears a mask; this one covered in eyes and weird pincers around the place where the mouth should be.

Alice inspects the baskets with polite curiosity.

"Your people are a constant source of excitement," she says. "Sunsa told me that the space tigress attacked another person. Without provocation."

Clarke presses her lips into a fine line. “Octavia can be a bit impulsive.”

“That would be the third impulsive person in your party. And it’s only a handful of you. I shudder to imagine what surprises the rest of your people will bring.”

“Alice, you have to understand, the world we come from is completely different, and we’ve only been here for a few weeks. With a little time-“

The redheaded woman turns, her eyes dead serious even if her lips are curved in a kind smile. “I think we have been extremely accommodating to your plight, Clarke. I would love nothing more than to aid our fellow humans, but we need the graa’s support. They provide us with energy and allow us to remain on this land as long as we follow their rules, and their rules forbid violence. I don’t think you people are capable of living _without_ it.”

“We can change.”

Her smile turns softer. "No, you can't. This wrath and bloodlust are who you are. And I am sorry, but there is no place for it here."

Clarke rolls her tongue over her teeth.

“What if we did it progressively? We could bring a handful at a time every few months. See how they settle before bringing in the next group.”

Alice sighs, shaking her head. She tows Clarke towards a stand of dried plants and buys two small sticks. Nibbling on them, they are spicy and acidic; Clarke loves them instantly.

"I am sorry, Clarke. In the next meeting, I am going to vote against you, bringing more spacies to the ground. Hawel will have my back, as he often does."

“What about the people that are already on the ground. Other than Murphy and Octavia, they’ve all been good.”

“If I recall correctly, Bellamy punched me.”

"He is not a violent man. He was in shock, and he's been attending the non-violence therapy group."

Alice narrows her eyes but doesn't turn to look at her. "So, if I were to decide that Octavia and Murphy have no place here, you would take them back to your spaceship?"

“We need to find a way of living together, Alice. If that means removing the aggressive people, then yes, we will take them up there and put them in cryo.”

The redhead hums noncommittally.

“Please, Alice.”

“I will take this new information under consideration. Now, let’s enjoy the fair.”

They wander together around the Walking Forest, stopping every now and then to listen to a performer, inspect the goods on vendor’s tables and taste the offered food.

Clarke sees Madi a few times over the night: sitting with her friends at a performance, running between the trees, always smiling and carefree, like she should be: a carefree child. It warms her heart. This, this is everything she ever wanted for Madi: to be able to grow, to go to school, to live a life similar to what she had on the Arc, with friends and teachers and unimportant problems like grades and dances and crushes.

She has it here, and, as long as they behave, nobody will take it away from her.

“Clarke.”

Abby comes to a halt in front of Alice and her daughter. She looks better after a few weeks of rest and a healthy diet. She isn’t as jittery as she was when she first went through detox, and Clarke is convinced, that her dependency is over. There is no need for drugs down here, no world-ending decisions, no high-stress situations, no impossible choices, no autocratic reign of a madwoman.

“Good evening, Dr. Griffin,” says Alice.

“Can I borrow my daughter for a little while?”

The ever-present reassuring smile never falters. "Of course. It is late, and I should be heading home. Good night to both of you."

The two Griffin women watch Alice disappear between the trees; a moment later, the doctor turns to her daughter. "How are the negotiations to bring Wonkru into the reservoir going?"

Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose.

She can’t bring herself to tell her mom what Alice just told her. That with Octavia, Murphy, and Bellamy acting up, the humans don't want to risk it. And the graa'll probably demand everyone undergo reeducation as Echo did.

"Good," she lies instead. Her mom doesn't need the stress of knowing her people will have to stay in cryo indefinitely. "I think we'll be able to bring some of them down really soon.”

Abby licks her lips, looks around nervously and bends forward conspiratorially. "Maybe we should consider bringing only Skaikru down. At least for the time being." Clarke does her best not to gape. "This world- I don't think Wonkru is ready to set foot on a new planet."

“But Skaikru is?”

“We have the experience. Plus we have knowledge these people could use. We have engineers and farmers and mechanics.” Clarke rolls her tongue over her teeth. “Plus they are loyal, and are used to living under strict rules and regulations.”

“You mean they are loyal to you and not Octavia.”

Abby’s shoulders slump slightly. “I mean they are loyal to us, and not to the flame.”

Clarke feels a chill rolling down her spine at the mention of the chip carrying the consciousness of the commanders. This, she is forced to remember, is a respite both for her and Madi. Up in the sky, there are hundreds of people ready to destroy her childhood.

Not to mention the fact that some Wonkru is still loyal to Octavia and will see Madi as a threat to Blodrenina's rule.

“It might be a good idea.”

Abby smiles.

She isn’t wrong. Everyone in Skaikru knew each other. They are less likely to strike out on their own or cause trouble; they'll follow Abby and Kane as they've always done. And, once they've proven that they can be trusted, that they are not going to ignite a war, other people from Wonkru can be brought down. Maybe the warriors can go through the same reeducation program Echo has gone through.

 _Confusion and disorientation are usual,_ said the alien this morning. _It should wear off after around twelve hours. It takes two days at most. Being with friends and family helps quicken the process. The only thing that should have changed is her disposition towards violence._

So, when the spy's memories come back, they'll have proof that the graa reeducation program works, and if Skaikru's incorporation into the community works as well, the rest of Wonkru should be accepted into the reservoir without a problem.

Bellamy is standing beside the locked door to the breakfast room when Clarke arrives next morning.

He leans on the wall beside the keypad, his hands in his pockets, head tipped back and eyes closed.

“What are you doing here?” asks the blonde, coming to a halt beside him.

Bellamy straightens, his warrior face back on. She longs for the time when he didn’t feel the need to put up a front in her presence.

"I want to talk to our graa, overlords."

Clarke rolls her eyes, steps towards the keypad and puts in the combination to unlock the door.

“They are not like that.”

“The locked door suggests otherwise.”

“The lack of contact is for our protection.”

He hums and steps in after her, closing the door at his back.

Prim' Sev turns towards them from where they are standing next to the table.

"Ah, Bellamy Blake," smiles the graa. "I am glad to have the chance to finally meet you."

Bellamy scowls at her. “We already met.”

Prim' Sev inclines her head. "But now we have a chance to get to know one another properly. I have heard much about you."

The Spacekru leader doesn't look impressed, and Clarke knows this is going to be a disaster. Bellamy is a very stubborn man, getting him to change his mind about anything is nearly impossible, and he's already decided he doesn't like the graa.

“If that gets you to undo what you’ve done to Echo, you can get to know me all you want.”

"What we've given your friend, Echo is a gift."

"You've erased her memories. Forcing her to go through a trauma, she already went through a hundred years ago."

Prim' Sev twitters. "As I told Clarke, the mind's confusion is temporary."

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest. “How long is temporary?”

“It depends from case to case. Between two and three days at the most. Tomorrow she should be as she was." The graa clicks her tongue. "You are a distrustful little thing, aren't you?"

“Trust is earned.”

She inclines her head. “Then let me earn that trust of yours. I have gotten clearance for you and Clarke to visit the festivities at a graa village seven tiptips sunborn from here.”

Clarke’s head snaps to the horned woman at that. “I thought it was too dangerous.”

“This one will be safe. A chance for the two of you to see a little more of what we are trying to protect with these harsh measures.”

Clarke feels the thrill of adventure gnawing at her bones, her hands itching with nervous energy, a part of her terrified of leaving Madi behind, another desperate for a break.

“I can’t leave my people behind,” says Bellamy before she has time to.

"This will be only a day trip. You will be back safe and sound by first sundown."

Clarke turns to him. He’s considering, as excited for the opportunity as she is, with a little push in the right direction he’ll accept.

 _'What would Raven say?’,_ whispers a little voice in the back of her mind.

“This is an opportunity to know more about this planet,” she whispers.

“I can’t just leave.”

"We'll be back before they know you're gone." Clarke grabs his arm, inches away from where he's gripping his elbow. "There is nothing you can do staying here. At least going to the village, you can find more out about them?"

He eyes Prim' Sev, his jaw set. His eyes have already accepted. "We'll be back by sundown."

“As true as my left horn.”

He sighs in defeat, accepting the decision he had already made. "Ok. I'll go tell my people."

Prim' Sev twitters. "We will prepare the vehicle."

They meet with the horned women by the sleek, windowless car parked in front of the reservoir. Prim 'Sev and Kra'Nea are chirping back and forth. The ram-horned woman notices their approach first and quieting. “Ah, that was quick.”

“Who’re you?” asks Bellamy tipping his head in Kra’Nea’s direction

"Let me introduce you to Kra'Nea," says Prim' Sev. "She speaks no English, but understands a little."

Bellamy frowns at the ram-horned woman. “Good morning.”

Kra’Nea whistles her usual greeting. Bellamy whistles right back and Kra’Nea claps her hands, shaking her head from side to side in delight.

"Have you been learning our language?" asks Prim' Sev looking impressed.

“No.”

“Then I commend you on your listening skills. It was a rather decent first try.” They climb onto the car’s high seats.

“Friend of mine learned an extinct language that consisted on whistling. She spent three months communicating in nothing but whistles.” Bellamy swallows. “This sounds similar. Although I have no idea what I just said.”

“It’s our standard greeting: _Hope the gods give you bright suns today_. Much like your good morning.”

Bellamy blinks at the black walls. "Who learned to whistle?" asks Clarke, sitting across from him. Prim' Sev takes her spot beside her and knocks on the roof.

“Harper.” He forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not much to do in space for six years.”

The silence that follows is awkward and tense, the lack of windows making not looking at Bellamy really difficult.

"Who is Harper?" asks Prim' Sev.

“She was a part of my kru. Self-taught linguist and medic.”

“She passed recently?”

Bellamy's lips twist. "She died a hundred years ago. Give or take."

“We discovered their death a few days before Bellamy got to the ground,” explains Clarke. “We were in cryosleep.”

“Wish her heart good travels.”

Kra’Nea whistles low and sad. “She had a good life,” grumbles Bellamy more forcefully than really necessary. “And she died happy.”

“What else did you learn in space?” asks the graa when the silence falls over them again.

Bellamy's lips twist into a smile. "Emori learned everything Raven could teach: mechanics, math, a little bit of programming, how to drive the escape pod and repair solar panels. She never fell in love with 0-G, but" he chuckles, shaking his head. The love he has for his people is evident in the way he talks about Monty's stint at poetry and Raven's wind-up-toys and Echo, teaching them how to dance 'properly.'

“What about Murphy?” asks Clarke, and regrets it immediately when Bellamy’s eyes darken.

“He taught himself medicine.”

“Wasn’t that Harper’s calling?”

Bellamy stares down at his hands, twisting his fingers. “He learned how to deliver babies. I guess he figured with three couples on the ring, one of us was going to slip up.”

Clarke's mouth forms a soft "o," but no sound leaves her lips.

"It is a beautiful vocation," says Prim' Sev ignoring the tension crackling between the two humans. "Nurturers are highly regarded in graa society. Is he of a gentle disposition?"

Bellamy laughs. “Not in the least. Murphy’s- complicated.” He clears his throat. “So, tell me about this village we are going to.”

Prim' Sev inclines her head.

"It's the spring fest. We celebrate the hatching of our young and the first mating song of the Braanasar. There are drink and food and lively music to welcome the new ones into the community. Our nurturers paint the signs of good fortune on their brows and over their little hearts and then return the hatchlings to their parents. When the Braansar sings, it signals the bloom of our trees and crops. It is one of the most beautiful things you'll ever hear."

The light is blinding when they step out of the windowless vehicle.

Clarke blinks the dark spots out of her eyes, and her breath catches in her throat when she sees the village. They're standing at the wide entrance to a small town of dome-shaped, white, opaque glass and wooden houses arranged in concentric circles. Bright colored banners and crystal garlands sparkle between the buildings. The air is thick with smells of sweet baked goods and cooking meat. Young children – their horns barely peaking out on their brows, skip around playing, and chirping. Some of them wear headbands wreathed with flowers; others have tied bright ribbons and feathers to their shoulders, the ends flapping behind them.

Prim' Sev and Kra'Nea guide them into the village, past the first houses through wide streets flanked with blooming trees, shops, and little cafes. Clarke is breathless, and Bellamy keeps stopping to inspect the shop windows, his eyes wide with wonder.

Kra'Nea walks beside him, watching him take everything in with open curiosity. When a group of children runs beside her, she plucks a blue ribbon from their shoulder and ties it to Bellamy's.

Prim' Sev clucks her tongue, and they continue towards the main square, built around a twenty-foot- high stone cone topped by a sculpture of sun and moon entwined – the symbol of the Trik-maen-yokat cult.

The square is alive with music and people. At the foot of the cone, on a wooden dais, sit seven musicians, holding strange wind and string instruments. To their right street, vendors have set up their brightly colored carts and are busy selling food, ribbons, and trinkets. The building to their left is the only one not completely white. Instead, this one is covered from base to top with tiny handprints in a myriad of colors.

"That's the hatchery," explains Prim' Sev, "right under the watchful eye of the Gods" she points at the top of the cone.

Clarke is aware of the eyes warily following their every move, and of the fact that not everyone on the street is a graa: six-legged creatures with flowing manes chitter amiably with the horned aliens; small, winged humanoids flit through the crowds; slimy multi-eyed eldritch monsters growl at the end of leashes.

Clarke can only stare openmouthed, the sounds around her foreign and intriguing, the smells sweet and mouthwatering. It’s too much to take in at once.

 _'We are on an alien planet_.’

The realization dawns on her, leaving her wrong-footed and dizzy.

This village looks completely different than anything she's ever experienced; it smells different; it sounds different. This is the second time she has stood in an alien village and felt like she was both floating and drowning at the same time. The first time, though, Polis was inhabited by humans, people that looked and sounded like her. This is a thousand times worse. The sounds are too loud, the smells so intense she's nauseous, the colors and lights pierce her brain, and the million eyes of the aliens feel like javelin jabs, pinning her down.

Kra'Nea chirrups, appearing suddenly beside her, bringing her back to the spot her party is occupying in the square, dissolving the knot in the back of her throat. She takes a shuddering breath, blinking the spots out of her eyes and focusing on the graa. She offers her one of the golden breadsticks she brings and turns to Bellamy, whose face is open with wonder.

Clarke keeps her eyes on him, drawing comfort from the familiar shape of his face as he inspects his breadstick. Out of the corner of her eye, the blonde sees Kra'Nea patting the side of her jaw and rubbing her throat. "She wants you to try it," translates Prim' Sev.

Bellamy takes the pastry to his nose, sniffing it cautiously before taking a bite and chewing slowly. His eyes go wide, a smile curling around the right corner of his mouth. “Holy shit!”

Kra’Nea whistles. When Bellamy imitates the sound, she scratches the top of his head, a fond look in her eyes.

Clarke bites her treat with curiosity: it doesn't taste like anything she's ever tried before: bitter and spicy, with a sweetish aftertaste, it's buttery soft on the outside, and crisp and crunchy on the inside. "Oh, my god." Prim 'Sev preens.

“The baked goods of this village are famous on all the country.”

"I can see why this is very good." Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke sees Bellamy slipping the treat into his bag.

"You can wander about the square, it is safe," says Prim' Sev, "But careful not to get lost on the streets."

Bellamy’s nervous energy snapping into movement and he sets off immediately, curiously drawn to the carts. Clarkes scrambles to keep up with him, unwilling to be left alone while surrounded by so many aliens. They poke around the wares, running their fingers over the ribbons and picking up trinkets to inspect them more closely.

The aliens seem to take to him readily enough, patting him on the head and whistling in their language. Bellamy manages to trade a pen for a cute bracelet, and the vendor ties a second ribbon on his shoulder.

“How do you do it?” whispers Clarke a while later, after they’ve extricated themselves from a creature walking a _very friendly_ eldritch monster that’s covered them in a slimy purple substance.

“What?”

“That? Having everyone eating out of the palm of your hand?”

Bellamy rubs the back of his head effectively smearing some of the purple slime on his hair. “I don’t know. It’s not like you’re doing so bad yourself, what with high and mighty following you around like a puppy.”

Clarke looks over her shoulder at Prim' Sev. "That's different." She feels self-conscious of her yellow hair, is extremely aware of the graa with solver and golden horn-wrap. None of the aliens have touched her head as they do with Bellamy, and where he has already seven ribbons on his shoulders.

He smirks playfully: “Are you jealous, princess?” Clarke’s heart jumps at the nickname, her cheeks warming.

“What if I am?”

He chuckles, unties a long red ribbon from his jacket and ties it to her wrist. “Maybe they have noticed that I am more fun.”

“I can be fun.”

Bellamy's eyes sparkle with mischief, but, before he can say anything else, a small child with a flower crown hiding the protrusions of his soon-to-be horns pulls on the Spacekru leader's arm. His eyes are alight as he gets roped into a game of tag. The children teach him quickly, even with the language barrier.

Clarke sighs and joins Prim' Sev. The graa and her handmaid are sitting at a café, sipping bright pink beverages that are bitter and ice-cold.

“What’s the matter, precious?”

“Oh, nothing. I like seeing him like that.”

“He looks carefree.”

“Bellamy likes kids a lot. Is very protective of them.”

_There are kids in here. We need a plan that doesn't kill everyone._

The memory of Bellamy's static-covered voice slams into her like a battering ram. _'Children, that's how you get him on board with the Skaikru solution,_ ’ whispers a voice in her head.

“I haven’t thanked you, for allowing Bellamy to come with. It will do him good to spend a bit away from the reservoir.”

“Anything you ask for, precious.”

Clarke feels her cheeks growing warm and looks away.


	15. Chapter 15

The hatching ceremony takes place after a feast served on the square by graa in silver horn-wrap. It is pretty straightforward: an old graa reads from a scroll, and another presents the parents with a small bundle of colorful, squirming blankets. Kra'Nea tears up, but after ten minutes, Clarke is just bored. The whole ritual takes about half an hour, and then, conversations start anew.

“Why don’t the parents keep the eggs until they hatch?”

Prim’Sev turns to Bellamy. “The community prides itself of taking care of their young. It would be a great insult and dishonor to turn our backs to our most vulnerable.”

Bellamy hums. “What I don’t get is, why keep humans and the rest of you separate? Why are there other species, but humans must stay in their reservoir?”

“Humans don’t want to mingle. We have tried before but-“ she swallows. “Some can be trusted. Clarke is of gentle disposition. And you seem kind, as well.”

“You are aware I am going to reeducation class, right? They’re trying to teach me not to violent.” Prim’Sev’s spine goes rigid, her nose twitches. “And yet here I am. Having the capacity for doing terrible things, doesn’t mean that we will. I am sure you have some dark patches in your history, too.”

The horned alien works her jaw. "You speak boldly now that your mistress isn't nearby."

"Clarke is not my mistress. I am the leader of my clan, and I answer only to them."

“A male leader.” She huffs what he can only assume is a laugh. “How has your clan survived?”

Bellamy feels a cold chill running down his spine, bile rising to the back of his throat. He fights it back. He has done everything in his power to keep his people safe, time and time again, and it's not like others have done a better job than him – O killed a third of her population in six years, Clarke- Clarke wanted to leave the dropship where sixty innocent children died – most of them out of his own stubbornness and pride.

“Hey, are you ok?”

Clarke’s suddenly there, standing by his side, her hand in his, squeezing it comfortingly.

“Fine. I was discussing foreign politics with Prim’Sev.”

Clarke smiles, uncomfortably."

“You friend is very eloquent,” grits the horned alien stiffly.

The moment is broken by the most beautiful sound Bellamy has ever heard. It’s like nothing he’s ever heard, and echoes between the houses, tingling on the glass garlands and resonating somewhere deep in his belly. The song ends after two or three seconds, and the whole village stays quiet, looking expectantly at the sky. A moment later another, deeper voice resonates through the forest, the melody just as beautiful, the whole village erupts into cheers. “Second spring is officially underway,” explains Prim’Sev. “It will be a time of plenty and good weather.”

The ride back to the reservoir is quiet and tense. Both humans are tired, their heads buzzing with the music and the tastes of the village. The car stops and Prim’Sev helps Clarke climb out of the vehicle and bids them both goodbye. The humans watch the car roll away towards the second setting sun.

Clarke’s sigh is explosive in the silence, stopping Bellamy in his tracks.

“They are never letting us bring all four hundred of us into the reservoir,” says the blonde carefully.

He doesn’t say anything, staring at the concrete building, the words over the door: HR Common House II. A prison for humans, because they’re too dangerous to be left loose on the world.

"Maybe, it's for the best."

The weight of the concrete shadow feels like it's crushing him. He feels like he's spent most of his life trapped in one way or another inside constricting walls and if he'd never tasted freedom, he might have been ok with it. But a few months on the ground were intoxicating, a drug he can't have enough of. And now he's trapped once again, the forest just there barely out of reach.

“Maybe we could convince them to let us bring in a few people at a time.”

Bellamy frowns but doesn’t turn towards her. He has a feeling he knows where she’s going.

"Maybe we could start with people we know," she says slowly like she's coming up with the idea on the spot. "See if Skaikru can adapt and then, after a few years, we start bringing the rest down."

Bellamy shudders.

_See you in ten years._

“No.”

“Bellamy. It is a good plan.”

"Of course, you would think so."

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have a clue what it means to be a clan. What it means to go to sleep thinking everyone is safe and waking up to find that you’ve been left behind.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy sees her work her jaw. "Of course, I know."

“No, you don’t. If you knew you wouldn’t even think about doing it to hundreds of people.”

“I am trying to come up with a feasible solution. Plus you cannot compare Wonkru to you. They were a badly held together group of enemies.”

“They are still Octavia’s people.” Bellamy frowns. “Except you don’t want O’s people.”

“We need people we know won’t start a war out of nowhere. People who follow strict rules and are used to-“

"You mean Skaikru. Loyal to your mom and Kane and fuck everyone else."

“No. It’s temporary. Our goal is to-“

A chuckle bubbles up in his throat. It's ugly and harsh, and it echoes in the darkening forest. "Spare me your bare boned logic, Clarke."

“You know we are in this situation because of your people and your sister.” He turns to her, anger burning in his veins like wildfire, but Clarke is not done. “You think I want to leave everyone up there? That I haven’t tried time and time again to come up with a better solution? You have all your friends. You forget that I have Trikru friends, too. But this is a matter of life and death.”

“Don’t try to make it look like this isn’t the most convenient outcome for your little Commander conundrum.”

“Yes, I am glad the people that would put a child as their leader don’t get to ruin what little of her childhood is left. But that’s not the only reason why I think it’s our best chance.”

“I can’t deal with this right now. You asked my opinion. I gave it. Now, do whatever you want. It’s not like I could ever stop you before.”

He leaves before she has time to answer. Raven’s sitting at the porch of their dorm, fiddling with something small and a screwdriver. The image takes him back to a simpler time back when they were on the Ring: endless nights sitting in companionable silence, her tinkering, him braiding her hair, just to have something to do with his hands.

Her dark eyes shoot up. “You’re blocking my light.”

He steps to the side and sits behind her when she scoots forward on the step to let him slip behind her. "How was your day trip."

He combs her hair with his fingers. "It was beautiful and interesting." He parts her hair. "I brought you some of their food to try. It's delicious. How was everything here?"

“Same old, same old.”

 _Did Echo say something? Is she back?_ He wants to ask.

“Your sister hasn’t left the Wandering Forest since last night. Emori and I have been all day in the workshop. She’s with Murphy, now, they went to have some alone time,” she looks over her shoulder to wag her eyebrows at him. Bellamy rolls his eyes and turns her head back to continue with his braid. He loved working on Octavia’s hair back when they were kids: braiding it and putting it up into buns, trying to recreate the silly up-dos he saw in the movies. “Echo hasn’t come out of the room since her encounter with Octavia yesterday.”

Bellamy swallows.

He remembers trying to get her to talk to him after finding her curled up in a corner of the room, her eye swollen shut and bruised. Her wide eye and pale face and blank expression.

“Has she talked to you?”

“No. She hasn’t said a word.”

Bellamy ties the end of the braid with a red ribbon from his shoulder.

“You should try to talk to her.”

He nods, rests his head on her shoulder, breathing her familiar scent in. She’s always so rational, everything makes sense when she breaks it down for him. “Have I told you how lucky we are to have you?”

"Not as often as you should. Now go talk to your wife, Blake. Let's see if we can straighten one mess before we inevitably wander into another." He knocks his brow against the curve of her shoulder and stands.

The room is dark and quiet. With the pale light filtering through the windows, he sees a lump in the bed beside his. He inches closer. “Echo? Are you awake?”

The lump shifts, but other than a low-barely audible moan, there’s no other sound. He steps closer. A moonbeam catches the proud arch of her cheekbones and the shadows her long eyelashes cast. Her eyes flit under her eyelids. The bruise looks like a dark smudge, but it’s no longer so inflamed. He runs his fingers over her hair.

He still isn't used to watching her sleep. Back on the Ring, she was always up and about, waking before he did, and staying up until after he fell asleep, her chronic insomnia being worse than his. The day he put her into cryo being the first time he really saw her sleep.

Echo whimpers, so quiet it’s more an exhale than a real sound.

"Shh… It's ok, Echo, you're safe."

A tear rolls down the side of her face towards her ear, he snatches it up before it can reach it.

Echo doesn’t cry.

Her body goes rigid, muscles locking in in a panic, her eyes rolling from side to side under her e eyelids.

“Echo?”

She’s holding her breath, muscles on the brink of snapping, lip quivering.

Bellamy grasps her shoulders, shaking her roughly. “Wake up.” He can nearly see her heart hammering against the delicate column of her hair. “WAKE UP!”

The spy inhales sharply, her eyes snapping open, wide and terrified. She searches his face for a whole minute, tears are hanging from her eyelashes, but they don't fall.

She leans into his touch for a few seconds, before shaking herself and crawling back and away from him. She looks young, vulnerable, and terrified, whit her legs pressed against her chest and her hair falling wildly around her face.

“Talk to me, Echo. Please.”

She flinches back when he tries to cup her cheek. It hurts like a punch. “Please, just talk to me.”

“I serve my clan. My job is to protect the hearth. Make sure the roof doesn’t fall on it. The walls don’t collapse.”

Bellamy frowns. “You have kept us safe, Echo.”

She shakes her head. “No. No. I fail. No matter what I try, I fail. I fail.”

"Hey, none of that! You kept us safe on Earth. You protected Emori and Murphy, you got Raven back and brought a new member to our family. If we are all here, it's thanks to you."

She shakes her head, resting it between her knees. "I am not that woman you are talking about anymore." Bellamy scoots closer and pulls her against his chest. Echo flinches but doesn't pull away.

“I am broken,” she whispers.

“What makes you think that?”

“How can I defend my people if I incapable of defending myself?”

He pulls her closer against his chest. “You are so much more than your ability to fight, babe.”

“I am broken.”

Her arms come slowly around his waist, hands splayed over his back, pressing him closer. Her head is nested against his chest, her shoulders shudder, but she doesn’t cry.

“No, you are not.” He kisses the top of her head, crushing her against his chest.

It’s not until much later, when she’s curled up against his leg torn in a fitful sleep that he realizes that she didn’t react with confusion to the memories of their fight for Eden. Which must mean that her memories are back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this was unbetad  
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting.

**Author's Note:**

> This thing was, like always, not beta'd.  
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting.


End file.
